Agnes Canon's War

by Deborah Lincoln

  Four men relaxed with drinks and cigars in green velvet chairs. Jabez recognized one, hard to mistake: a man as tall as Atchison, probably tipping the scales at three-fifty. Albert Boone was famous as an Indian trader, a mining outfitter, and the owner of Westport’s largest house and first bathroom. If Boone’s here, thought Jabez, we’re in for a rabid proslave lecture.

  Atchison led off the introductions with Boone, moved to the next man remarkable in comparison as he was a small, pinched little man. “May I present Doctor John Stringfellow, gentlemen?” said Atchison. “You and he have something in common, Doctor Robinson, as he is of the medical profession himself.” The intelligence among Jabez’s medical colleagues was that Stringfellow was not a physician one would allow to attend one’s family. The small man bowed slightly without rising. “Doctor Stringfellow edits the Squatter Sovereign; perhaps you’ve read it? If not, I suggest you do. Excellent paper, excellent.”

  Next to Stringfellow on the stiff settee was Jo Shelby, slight, precise, sporting a neatly trimmed and sharply pointed beard. Jabez knew him by reputation as the richest slaveholder in Missouri. Shelby acknowledged them with a wave of his hand.

  Atchison turned to the man leaning against the chimney piece who bore a decided resemblance to Stringfellow. “And the doctor’s brother, General Ben Stringfellow.” The general smoked a pipe, a fragrant cloud lingering about his head. “We expect great things from him, in the contest to come, eh, General?” He cuffed the man on the shoulder, threatening to knock him off his feet.

  Almost as an after-thought, Atchison turned to the window, and Jabez started when he recognized the figure standing in the shadows. The man shuffled into the firelight, his rough wool trousers and threadbare shirt a stark contrast to the rich clothing of the others.

  “Bigelow?” John said. “Willard Bigelow?” He folded his arms across his chest, and Bigelow scowled, looking away. He was the last person Jabez expected to turn up in Atchison’s parlor.

  “Hey, Mr. Moodie. Mr. Crow,” Willard mumbled. He nodded to Sam and Jabez and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He no longer looked the whining bully, sneaking shots of spiked punch at the barn dance. He’d grown into his height, close to six feet Jabez judged, fit and muscled, a hank of oily yellow hair flopping over his forehead. But most arresting were the eyes, Jabez remembered those eyes. Even in the shadows, they were strikingly pale, not quite silver, burning cold and white. A faint purplish scar ran from his left earlobe to the bridge of his nose. From having stitched up many similar wounds, Jabez knew it to be a knife slice healed without the benefit of medical attention. It hadn’t been there a year ago. The expensive crystal tumbler in his hand was half-full of whiskey, neat, looking out of place in rough hands.

  “So you know my friend.” Atchison stepped to Bigelow and put a proprietary hand on his shoulder. Willard’s eyes slanted in Atchison’s direction, a fleeting smirk of distaste crossing his lips, then he shrugged off the hand by lifting the glass and swallowing the whole of its contents. “Wil’s young, but he has at his command a whole company of good Missouri boys who ain’t afraid to fight for the honor of the South, eh, boy?” The big man slapped Bigelow on the back. “Hails from your neck of the woods—one of yours, eh?” Without waiting for a response, he turned to the company. The boy, Jabez thought, could be the most dangerous man here.

  “My friends,” Atchison said, regarding the newcomers, puffing out his chest as he swung into his stump speech. “My colleagues and I have asked you as fellow Masons to join us this evening on a matter of great importance.” He waved at the others in the room. “It is, of course, the Kansas question. You may think that the settlement of the Kansas territory need little concern the citizens of Missouri. Certainly you may think the question of Kansas has aught to do with farmers and businessmen such as yourselves.” He stopped for effect. “Well, my friends, you would be wrong.” He took a pull on his cigar to emphasize his point. “Kansas is an extension of Missouri. Its climate and soils match those of the Missouri River corridor, its future is in tobacco and hemp, corn and hogs, just like that of the great state of Missouri. Its institutions and society should be Missourian. Its fields and prairies should be settled by those who bring southern honor, southern pride, southern values to the new west. In short, gentlemen, Kansas should be, must be, settled by slave interests.”

  He stopped there, red-faced, puffing with exertion, splashed another finger of bourbon into his glass and gulped. Sam and John stirred uncomfortably, Billy looked to Jabez. Jabez kept his expression carefully blank.

  “Now, Senator,” Sam said.

  “Just a moment, though,” the Senator interrupted. “There are other reasons, beyond the need to provide land for good Missouri citizens to farm. Let me enumerate them.” He held up a pudgy forefinger. “One. The northern money power aims to dominate us, to impose the tyranny of its control on the south.” His voice crescendoed. “Gentlemen, Faneuil Hall is coming to rule us. Do we stand by and allow that to happen? By God, I say no—never!”

  Up went a second finger. “If Kansas was to organize as an abolitionist state, Missouri, our home, would be surrounded, surrounded, gentlemen. The abolitionists would be all around us. Our institutions, our property, our very way of life would be threatened with destruction.”

  The Senator’s friends nodded, murmured their assent. J.W. Moodie glanced nervously at Sam. Jabez stirred impatiently.

  “And third,” Atchison held up yet another finger, heavy with a gold and jade ring, “and most important. We are playing for a mighty stake. The game must be played boldly. If we win, we carry our institutions to the Pacific Ocean. If we fail—well, gentlemen, we cannot fail. To fail would be to lose Texas, Arkansas, all the territories. And yes, to lose Missouri.” His voice softened, now sad and gentle. His fierce black eyes pinioned each Holt man, one after another, challenging and inviting their alliance. “Gentlemen, I say we cannot fail.”

  Sam would not be still. “Senator,” he said. “We ain’t slave-holders. Holt County folks farm small holdings. We grow corn and hogs with free labor. Our own labor.” He set down his whiskey glass with a thump. “We don’t cotton to abolitionists, no sir, we don’t hold that the Negro can live alongside the white man.” He stood, planted his feet, forced Atchison to take a step back. “Sir, the course you take’ll tear this country apart. I won’t be a party to it.”

  One of the Stringfellows, the doctor, jumped to his feet. “We got to draw the line here, Canon.” His face was fiery. “We got to fill Kansas with our own folk before Kansas turns into a swarm of lawless infidels and abolitionists. You can’t sit back and watch it happen. They’ll take your farm, too, wait and see.”

  John spoke up. “Seems to me there’re more southerners in Kansas now than northerners. Maybe, gentlemen, we’re jumping the gun here. Douglas’s idea—and yours, too, Senator—allow settlers to vote their minds which way they want to go. Seems to me that’s the way to bring the territories into the Union peacefully.”

  Atchison turned to him. “Ah, Mr. Jackson, there’s the rub.” He stabbed a forefinger at John. “My support of Stephen Douglas’s bill came with the assumption that Missourians would pre-empt Kansas and there’d be no interference. If truth be told, the Senator and I had that very agreement.” He straightened up, squared his shoulders. “But I am surprised, no astounded, shocked—by the news from Boston. That’s the reason I returned home, even though I am sorely needed to work the House before its vote on the bill.” He looked around. “Gentlemen, as we speak, the abolitionists in Massachusetts are organizing a mass migration to Kansas. They have chartered an emigrant aid society to fill the territory with their kind. Now, sir, I have opened this great country for Missourians, not for abolitionists, and I expect Missourians, all Missourians, to assert their rights.”

  Sam stepped to a window, hands in pockets, and stared out at the night. Mr. Moodie jumped in. “There ain’t no indication that the northerners’re a
bolitionists. They might just be farmers like us. God knows we could use some northern manufacturing know-how down here.”

  Atchison turned on him. “Any man,” he roared, “who comes to make Kansas a free state I regard as an abolitionist, sir, a black and dirty fiend who aims to make the nigger the equal of the white man. Do you wish to see your daughters married to a black man? Do you wish to see your wives and children sitting side by side with black wenches in church? Nor do I. I’ll not see Kansas vote freesoil. That, sir, is our duty as southerners and the only way we preserve our freedoms.”

  Jabez stirred, stubbed out the cigar which had burned to ash under his hand. “And what is your plan, Senator?” he asked. “How do you intend to counter the northerners?”

  “We are organizing. Even now, families with black labor are preparing to move soon as weather permits. We have dozens of boys under Wil, here,” he nodded at Bigelow, “moving into Kansas to stake their claims. When the abolitionists arrive, they’ll find the good land gone. And if they choose to stay anyway,” he turned slowly to each man, “we will shoot, burn and hang. I assure you, gentlemen, the thing will soon be over. We intend to Mormonize the abolitionists.”

  Jo Shelby leaned forward in his chair, his beard trembling. His words were as pinched as his appearance. “Gentlemen, you must understand. We brought you here as brothers in Freemasonry. We’re sworn to support one another, to provide succor to one another.” His small hand stroked dove-gray trousers. “If you are not with us, then you are against us. Please consider.”

  John looked from Shelby back to Atchison. “What would you have us do?”

  General Stringfellow stepped away from the chimney piece, pipe in hand. “We need you to organize men from the northern counties. We need names, men we can count on to cross into Kansas and stake claims.”

  “Spring plowing’s coming up,” Moodie said. “The men in Holt and Noddaway need to tend their farms, ain’t got the resources to go gallivanting about Kansas.”

  General Stringfellow waived away the objection. “They’ll be back in a week. All we ask is they stake claims. They can come back to tend their farms for the summer.”

  “But to prove a claim a man has to build and farm it.”

  “Don’t concern yourselves with details,” Albert Boone said. “We’ll take care of it.”

  “We’ll need men to vote,” the general said. “As soon as elections are called, sometime in the next few months, we intend to take a thousand Missourians in to vote proslave. We need to raise at least fifty from your area.”

  John looked askance. “Those votes will never be certified.”

  “There’s no residency requirement,” Boone answered. “How do you think those northerners expect to carry a vote? They’ll be bringing voters right along with their settlers. Once we carry the votes and get our men into territorial government, we can be sure the future of Kansas goes the right way.”

  John turned to Atchison. “Was this the idea behind popular sovereignty? That it would devolve into a contest over who packs the polls?”

  Atchison snorted. “Don’t be naive. Every election in this country is carried by a stuffed ballot box. We’re simply ensuring the vote goes our way.”

  Jabez’s eyes slid to Bigelow, lounging against the wall in the shadows. “Sounds like a recipe for violence.”

  “You may be right, Doctor Robinson. We ain’t afraid of violence,” Atchison said. He turned to his friends. “Right boys?” He grinned, and they nodded back at him.

  Sam had had enough. “Senator, I won’t speak for my friends here. Every man’ll let his conscience talk. But you won’t be hearing from me.” He slammed his glass on the table. “Evenin’.” And he stalked from the room without acknowledging the others.

  John stood. “Well, sir.” He extended his hand toward the Senator. “It’s been an interesting evening and an interesting discussion.” He nodded to the rest of Atchison’s group. “We’ll discuss your plans among ourselves. If any one of us is interested in joining with you, I’m sure you’ll hear.” He left the room. After a moment of uncertainty, Moodie and Crow nodded to the company and followed him.

  Billy hung back as Jabez stepped close to the Senator. “Atchison, you risk civil war. The cataclysm that results would dwarf any war ever seen on this earth.”

  Atchison’s eyes narrowed. “We won’t be tyrannized by the north.”

  “Then secede. Take the south out and form a new nation. Do it now while you can still do it peaceably. Because if you pursue Kansas you’ll find the northerners just as willing to butcher their enemies as are you. And then it’ll be too late.”

  “I’ll consider your words. Are you with us?”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to keep us out of war. If that means working with you or against you, I’ll do what’s necessary.”

  Atchison took a long drag on his cigar. “I can see you would be a formidable opponent, Robinson. I’ve heard of you; I know something of your past. You could be useful to us.”

  “Only in the effort for peace. I’ll work for secession if that will ensure peace.”

  “What about you, boy?” Atchison turned to Billy, tipped his head at Willard Bigelow. “Sign up with Wil here and see some mighty fine action.”

  Billy turned a thoughtful eye toward Bigelow. The blond man stared back, one side of his mouth lifted, light eyes derisive. “I don’t think so, sir,” Billy said. He moved to the door and waited for Jabez.

  “We’ll be in touch.” Atchison offered his hand. After a moment, Jabez took it. He and Billy nodded to the others and left.

  

  The horses plodded in single file on the road beyond Castile. Noon was fast approaching, the day overcast and gloomy. They had endured a fretful night in a livery stable, no other accommodations being available in the vicinity of Atchison’s estate. Jabez, in the lead, reviewed in his mind the discussion of the night before, giving Jupiter his head. As the road rounded an outcropping of rock, Jupiter suddenly snorted, shied, danced on the rein. A copperhead, possibly, waking from the winter and seeking warmth on the packed surface of the road. Jabez pulled up, and Sam, then Billy, rode alongside him.

  From behind the rock, a rider ambled into the road. Another followed, then a third and a fourth. In a moment, seven horsemen blocked the path, leaning casually on saddle horns, ragged hat brims tilted over brows.

  “Morning, boys,” said the first, kneeing his horse forward, thumbing his hat back. Jabez looked into pale silver eyes. Willard Bigelow sat his sorrel mare easily, shotgun slung across pommel. Jabez felt the absence of his own pistol. No one of his party carried a gun, while the men in the road ahead ensured their firearms were conspicuous.

  Bigelow threw a leg over his saddle, leaned a forearm on the horn. “You pass a nice evening?” The men behind him shifted in their saddles.

  Sam assumed the role of spokesman. His horse danced under a tight reign. “Move, Willard.”

  “We need to talk, Judge,” Bigelow said easily, a smile on his thin lips. “I don’t think we come to agreement last night.”

  “Ain’t no agreement asked,” Sam said in a measured voice. “The Senator knows my mind.”

  “That ain’t good enough,” said Bigelow, straightening in the saddle. “As the man said, either you’re with us or you’re against us. Now, which is it, Judge?”

  Jabez twitched Jupiter up, close enough to Bigelow to challenge him. “We told Atchison we’d get back to him. That’s good enough,” he said. Jupiter’s head bumped into Bigelow’s mare. The mare whimpered. “Now move your men and let us pass. You’ve no call to make threats.”

  Bigelow looked Jabez up and down. “Your answer better be the right one, Doc,” he said. “We’ll be calling on you. And your families. We expect you to be on the right side.” His lips curved, dead-fish eyes cold. After a moment he pulled his horse around, signaled to his men, and disappeared in
to the brush.

  19

  April 1854

  The new year sped by, and Agnes was well into her thirtieth year. Thirty years. How, she wondered, had she come to age so quickly? She felt as if she was of Billy’s and Elizabeth’s generation, rather than ten years their senior. A function of dependency on her relatives, she supposed. But she had a plan. She was setting aside money each month and soon, before too many years passed, would have enough for a small property of her own. Or perhaps she would use it to travel west. San Francisco. Oregon.

  Though as she grew older, the appeal of traveling on alone waned. She found the society in Missouri much more liberating than back home—she could think and read and say what she liked and no one hissed or frowned at her. And too she found herself well attached to her relations. To the younger ones, especially. And there was another new one to love. Elizabeth’s little John Andrew was born one month ago exactly, and he was a plump and rosy thing, much loved by his mother. His papa was ecstatic. Doctor Norman delivered, as Doctor Robinson was gone to St. Joseph or some such place.

  Agnes had seen little of Doctor Robinson since Christmas dinner. That is, she saw him ride out on that big bay of his, but he had not visited the Jacksons' home. His medical bag always hung from the saddle horn, so she assumed he was on his way to see patients. She found herself watching for him from her bedroom window or from the schoolhouse door. The ladies had named him (but not to his face) Holt County’s most eligible bachelor. Mamas from Forest City to Richville invited him to family dinners and Sunday church socials. She had seen him at one or two, but instead of paying court to the young ladies on display for his benefit, he indulged in conversation with the men, always talking politics, a passion that Agnes thought the world should dread no less than religion for its power to do harm.

  Agnes feared the doctor and Sam were contrary with one another. The town was much too small for two leading citizens to be in opposition and what with the Masonic meetings and so forth they were often thrown together. Though she understood something of the doctor’s difficulty with her cousin as Sam had always been opinionated and appeared to grow more obstinate with age. He and Billy had had yet another falling out, and Billy had begun to talk of going to California after the weather turned. He and Doctor Robinson had become great friends, a circumstance that could not but irk Sam terribly. Billy often stayed in town, working for Mr. Zook in his store, and mixing with the men of the town in conversation. The doctor's patience for Billy’s opinions and questions appeared limitless, and Agnes was a bit envious of the time they spent together.