Preacher

by William W. Johnstone

  This was a bayonet charge being made by battle-hardened and well-disciplined soldiers. Harding’s Legion, as indeed most of the others of Jackson’s Army, consisted of militiamen, many seeing battle for the first time. They fought back the bile of fear that rose in their throats, and they waited.

  Art aimed at one of the soldiers. He held the aim for a long moment, awaiting the order to fire. Then, capriciously, he shifted his aim to another soldier, sparing, for no particular reason, the first soldier.

  Not until the British were at point-blank range did Harding give the command to his battalion.

  “Fire!”

  Winks of light rippled up and down the American line as first the firing pans, and then the muzzle blasts, flashed brightly. Smoke billowed out in one large, rolling cloud as the sound of gunfire rolled across the plain. Art saw his man go down.

  The effect of the opening volley was devastating. In addition to the soldier Art shot, almost half of the British front rank went down under the torrent of lead. The second volley did as much damage as the first, so that when the huge cloud of gun smoke cleared away, there was nothing before the Americans but a field strewn with dead or dying British soldiers.

  The British Army was stopped in its tracks, almost as if they had run into a stone wall. A few of the British soldiers fired their weapons toward the Americans, but the volume of their fire was pitifully small.

  “Lord, Major, did you see that?” Delacroix asked excitedly. Delacroix was from the regular Army, and one of the few American defenders who had actually been in battle before. “We cut them down like so much wheat. They never had a ch ...”

  Delacroix stopped in midsentence when he saw that Major Harding couldn’t hear him. Although the firing coming from the British lines had been weak and, for the most part, ineffective, at least one bullet had found its mark. Harding was lying on his back, dead, from a wound in his forehead.

  Art saw him at the same time, and he dropped to one knee beside him.

  “Major Harding!” Art said.

  Delacroix, looking down at the boy and the major, shook his head sadly.

  “There’s nothing you can do for him now, son,” Delacroix said.

  Reaching down, Art closed Harding’s eyes.

  “Are you going to be all right?” Delacroix asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Art answered.

  “Good man. Better get back in line, looks like they’re comin’ again.”

  Once more the English came across the field, though this time without benefit of pipe or drum, for fully ninety percent of the Highlanders, to include every piper and drummer, had been killed in the previous charges.

  No longer an impressive front of redcoats and extended rifles, this was a ragged line of the desperate, brave, and foolish. The mighty yell of defiance that had issued from the throats of the attackers in the first wave was now a weak and disjointed cry from a few scattered men.

  Again, the Americans fired, the volley as intense with this barrage as it had been the first time. British soldiers clutched breasts, stomachs, arms, and legs as blood seeped through their spread fingers.

  Again, the line stopped, staggered, then turned and retreated back across the field.

  All save one.

  A single British lieutenant, screaming in rage and slashing at the air with his sword, continued toward the American ramparts even though every other man of the British Army was in retreat.

  “Follow me, men, follow me!” the lieutenant shouted. Though he was now the sole target and could have easily been killed, the American defenders withheld fire, watching in morbid fascination as he used the bodies of his own dead to give him a foothold to the top of the rampart wall.

  “Put them to the bayonet!” the lieutenant shouted, leaping down into the Americans, slashing out with his sword.

  The Americans backed away from the sword, but not one made an effort to harm the lieutenant. Instead, everyone looked at him in awe.

  Noticing his strange reception among the enemy, the British officer stopped screaming and lowered his sword. He looked behind him and, only then, realized that he and he alone had breached the rampart wall. He lowered his sword.

  “Let’s hear it for the lad!” someone shouted.

  “Hip, hip!”

  “Hooray!”

  “Hip, hip!”

  “Hooray!”

  Half-a-dozen Americans moved toward the lieutenant. One of them took his sword, and to the young officer’s surprise, they lifted him to their shoulders.

  “Here’s the bravest lad on the field today!” one of the Americans yelled, and once again, the Englishman was honored with cheers as he was borne on the shoulders of the men who, but moments earlier, had been his mortal enemy.

  The British were unable to launch another attack because their commander, General Sir Edward Parkenham, had been killed by a bursting cannon shell. With his dying breath, Parkenham had ordered his successor to continue to press the attack. Wisely, however, the new commander had disobeyed, pulling the survivors off the bloodied field and leaving behind over two thousand of his men dead or wounded.

  * * *

  Only eight Americans were killed in the battle, and while most celebrated their great victory, Art could feel only sorrow over the loss of his friend, Major Harding. Harding and the other Americans who were killed were taken back to New Orleans, where they were given a military burial.

  General Jackson attended the funeral, then sent word that he would like to talk to Art.

  “Me?” Art asked when Delacroix took him the message. “Are you sure the general said he wanted to talk to me?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Why on earth would he want to talk to me?”

  Delacroix shook his head. “I can’t answer that question,” he said. “But then, I learned a long time ago that you can’t never figure out what a general has on his mind. Whatever it is, I expect you had better go see him. Generals ain’t the kind of folks you want to keep waiting.”

  “Yes, sir,” Art said.

  “Here. Before you go, you ought to have this,” Delacroix said, reaching out his hand. He was holding something.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s a shoulder epaulet. Put this on your left shoulder.”

  “Only officers wear those.”

  “You are an officer,” Delacroix said. “You was just made a second lieutenant.”

  Art held up his hand in refusal. “Captain, I expect you should give that to someone else, someone who earned it. Now that the battle is done and the danger over, I hear General Jackson is going to let everyone out who wants out. And I want out.”

  Delacroix snorted a half laugh. “Hell, boy, it probably ain’t official. I’m not sure anyone as young as you can even be an officer. But far as I’m concerned, you earned this rank, and even if you take your discharge tomorrow, I figure you got the right to wear it for as long as you got left. I don’t mind admittin’ that I was wrong about you. When I first seen you back in St. Louis, I thought you was just some worrisome kid. But you sure changed my mind.”

  Hesitantly, Art took the epaulet. “I hope this doesn’t cause any trouble with the other men.”

  “How do you think you got that?” he asked. “The other men elected you. Every one of them. Including, even, Corporal Monroe. Of course, part of it might be because as soon as you agree to take it, Monroe becomes a sergeant,” Delacroix said, laughing.

  “I’m real honored,” Art said, pinning the epaulet onto his left shoulder. As he turned away from Delacroix, he was surprised to see the remaining men from the original twenty-eight who had left St. Louis together.

  “Attention!” one of the men shouted, and all stood, then saluted, as Art walked by.

  Awkwardly, Art returned the salute, then pulling himself up, walked by the standing men, heading for the house that had been put into service as General Jackson’s headquarters.

  * * *

  “Thank you for coming to see me, Lieutenant,
” General Jackson said. He stared at Art for a long moment, a frown crossing his face.

  “Damn, boy, how old are you?”

  “I’m fifteen, General.”

  “You are fifteen and a lieutenant? That’s not even . . .” He’d started to say legal, then stopped. “To hell with the regulations. I’m told that your men elected you to that position, and if they want you there, who am I to deny it? Besides, I know for a fact that Major Harding set quite a store by you. That’s why he named you in his will.”

  “His will?” Art asked, surprised by the general’s comment.

  “I had all the officers make out a will and submit it to me before the battle,” General Jackson said. “Were you related to Harding?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But you knew him?”

  “Yes, sir. We were friends from long before.”

  Was it long before? Art wondered. In terms of time, it had been only a year and a half ago since Harding had come to his rescue at Eby’s cave. Only eighteen months, yet it seemed half a lifetime ago.

  “Then maybe you will understand the rather strange wording of his will,” General Jackson said. “He talks about something he calls the creature.”

  Art laughed. “Yes, sir, I know about the creature.”

  General Jackson stroked his chin, then looked over at one of the nearby staff officers.

  “Colonel May, would you stand by, please, for the reading of the will?” General Jackson asked one of his staff officers. “Then I’ll want you to witness it.”

  “Yes, sir,” the colonel replied.

  Taking a pair of spectacles from a box, then putting them on, carefully hooking them around each ear, General Jackson unfolded a document and began reading.

  “To all who sees these presents, greetings. I, Peter Hamilton Harding, currently a major in General Jackson’s Army of Tennessee Volunteers, and being of sound mind and body, but ever cognizant of the possibility of a premature appointment with my maker as the result of battle, do hereby make this last will and testament.

  “First, I decree that any just debt owed by me shall be paid by any monies in my possession or due me.”

  General Jackson lifted his eyes from the reading and glanced up toward Art. “That has been taken care of,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jackson continued reading.

  “Second, all monies as may remain after the settlement of all just debt should be given to any church of the Protestant faith, said church to be selected by the regimental chaplain.”

  Again, Jackson looked up. “That too has been accomplished.”

  Reading again, Jackson continued. “And finally, I give profound regrets to my friend, Art, that I will be unable to see the creature with him. But to aid him in his own quest, I leave and bequeath my Hawken rifle and my pistol.

  “Signed by Peter Hamilton Harding and witnessed by Pierre Mouchette Delacroix.”

  Jackson looked over at Colonel May. “Would you witness this, please, Colonel?”

  Colonel May leaned over the table and affixed his signature to the place indicated by General Jackson.

  “Lieutenant, you will find the rifle and pistol on a table in that room,” Jackson said, pointing toward a door. “Take them and do honor to them, for they belonged to an honorable man.”

  “Yes, sir,” Art said, feeling nearly as much pride now as sorrow.

  If Art had wanted to go west to see the creature before, that desire was redoubled now. He felt a strong determination to carry out the plans he and Major Harding had made. It was no longer a drift without purpose. He felt as if he were on a mission.

  17

  It was March 22, 1815. For the first time in several days it was warm enough, and dry enough, for Art to strip out of his coat and slicker. The sun was out and he was enjoying its warmth, not only the rays as they fell on him, but also the convection heat that radiated back from the horse.

  Art had spent twenty dollars for the horse, ten for the saddle, and five for his sack of possibles. He had about ten dollars remaining, and he planned to use the last of his money in St. Louis, buying everything he might need for the trip west.

  He had considered going west from New Orleans, but that would have taken him through Mexico. He had fought for the United States, so like Harding, he wanted the land he saw to be American land. The best way to do that would be to follow the trail west, as established by Lewis and Clark. That meant following the Missouri River, and to do that, he would have to leave from St. Louis.

  Suddenly, and with no warning, the ground gave way beneath his horse’s hooves. The horse whinnied in surprise and pain, then fell to its right front knee. Art leaped from the saddle, both to avoid being thrown, and to keep from inflicting any further injury to his mount.

  It wasn’t until Art hit the ground himself that he saw the problem. Recent rains had cut a channel between streams. Because the grass was high, the channel couldn’t be seen, and when the horse had put its hoof down on the edge of the channel, the dirt wall had given way.

  The horse stood up, but when it tried to put its weight on its right foreleg, it balked, pulling it up again sharply. Kneeling by the horse, Art picked up the leg for a closer examination.

  He didn’t have to search for the injury. It was a compound fracture, and the bloody stump of a bone was sticking through the skin.

  “Oh,” Art said, shaking his head and rubbing the wound gently. Even the softest caress brought pain, and the horse tried to pull its leg away. “Oh, Lord, I know that hurts.”

  Art had only owned the horse for a few months, but it had been both his beast of burden and his sole companion for the long ride. Feeling a lump in his throat and a stinging in his eyes, Art wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck, embracing him. The horse looked at him with huge, brown eyes, begging the one who fed him, rubbed him down, talked to him, and cared for him, to do something to take away the hurt.

  Art knew there was only one thing he could do. The stinging in his eyes gave way to tears as he loaded his pistol.

  “I’m sorry, horse,” he said. “There’s no other way.”

  The horse continued to stare at him, not even looking away when Art raised his pistol and put the end of the barrel less than two inches away from the white blaze that shot down between the horse’s eyes.

  Art pulled the trigger. He felt something wet hit his face as the short, flat boom echoed back from the trees. The horse fell over on his side, bounced slightly, then was still.

  Art ran his hand across his face, then held it out to look at it. He saw blood and brain-matter. Shutting his eyes, he turned away from the horse and walked several paces before he stopped, his gun down by his side, a small plume of smoke drifting up from the end of the barrel.

  Art took several deep breaths, then turned back to the job at hand. There was no way to salvage the saddle. Right now, it was as worthless to him as the dead horse. But he took the saddle blanket and pouches, then snaked the rifle out of its sheath. Stuffing his possibles bag down into one of the pouches, he hitched up his trousers and started walking north.

  * * *

  He reached New Madrid four days after his horse went down. Coming into a town that soon after losing his horse was a pleasant surprise to him. It was even better that the town was New Madrid, because that gave him a sense of where he was. There was another surprise waiting for him at New Madrid. Tied up to the bank was the steamboat Delta Maid.

  The Delta Maid was one of a growing number of steamboats on the Mississippi. The New Orleans had inaugurated steamboat traffic on the river, commencing operation in 1811. The Delta Maid was one of the more recent additions to the Mississippi steamboat fleet, entering service early in 1814.

  Art knew the boat, because when he was in St. Louis, loading and unloading freight wagons, he sometimes took a load to, or brought a load from, the Delta Maid. As a result, he knew several of the deckhands, and even the captain of the boat. He wandered down to the river’s edge, then began looking
out at the boat to see if he could recognize anyone. He was seen first.

  “Art, how are you, boy? What are you doing in New Madrid? Last time I seen you, you was in St. Louis.”

  The man who hailed him was the boat’s engineer, John Dewey. Dewey was near the stern of the boat, standing in the shadows of one of the huge boilers.

  “Hello, Mr. Dewey,” Art replied. “Yes, sir, I was in St. Louis, but I went down to New Orleans to join up with General Jackson.”

  “Was you there when the battle was fought?” Dewey asked. He stepped up to the boat railing and dumped the ashes from the bowl of his pipe.

  “Yes, sir, I was.”

  “Well, good for you, boy. That was a heroic thing our soldier boys done down there. Taught them Brits a lesson they ain’t likely to forget for a while.”

  “Mr. Dewey, you think there might be a job on the boat for me?”

  “Well, now, you aimin’ to be a river man, are you?” Dewey asked.

  “Well, sir, I’d like to be a river man for a while anyway. My horse went down on me some way back, and I’m looking for a way to go to St. Louis.”

  “I could use a good man in the engine room,” Dewey said. “Come on aboard, I’ll talk to the captain for you.”

  “Thanks,” Art said.

  * * *

  Captain Timmons was nearly a head shorter than Art. He was bald, but with a full, gray beard that reached all the way down to the beginning of a prominent belly. He wore a dark blue jacket with brass buttons and more trim across the front than Art had seen on any of the generals in the recent battle.

  “Yes, I remember you, lad,” Timmons said. “From what I observed of you, you were a good worker. A good worker indeed. So, ’tis a river man you want to be, eh? Well, I can’t blame you. ’Tis quite a thing, being in command of this much power.”

  “Yes, sir,” Art said.

  “If you’ve a mind to, I’ll take you on as an apprentice. A smart boy like you could be a riverboat pilot in no time.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Captain,” Art said. “But if it’s all the same, I’d rather work in the engine room.”