Agnes Canon's War

by Deborah Lincoln

  Jabez picked up his glass and sipped. Monongahela rye. Trust Atchison to drink only the best.

  “Of course,” the big man said, eyes narrowing, “If you’d convinced Robinson to turn back like I asked you to, we wouldn’t be in this goddamn mess.”

  “Senator,” Jabez said, “you well know Charles wouldn’t turn back once they reached Kansas City. They believe, as you do, that the stakes are too high.”

  Atchison twirled his glass, looked at the bottle. It was nearly empty. “Wil Bigelow was supposed to stop them if you didn’t. Don’t suppose you know anything about why he never showed up?”

  Jabez snorted. “I have better things to do than play hide-the-stooge with your gunmen.” He sipped his drink, keeping his eyes on Atchison’s. “If our friend Wil hasn’t been fulfilling his assignments, maybe you should get someone else.”

  Atchison studied him in the flickering light of a badly trimmed wick. “Stooge, is it,” he said. “Best not be letting Bigelow hear you say that. That one’s a bad enemy to have, Doctor.” He downed the last of his drink and stood, his good humor back. “Well, sir, I’m that pleased to see you here among us, Robinson. Remember, we’re the winning side. You’re a smart man. I see you choosing the winner.” Jabez stared at the man, twisting his glass on the table in front of him. Atchison bowed and turned into the barroom calling for another bottle.

  

  Cannonballs pounded the earth, ricocheted off trees and walls, spewed dirt and dead leaves and debris. Someone shrieked his name and the sound echoed across the valley. The pounding faded into hammering, the steady hammering of carpenters nailing coffins, rows and rows of them, stretching across the landscape, up a hillside, out of sight, nail after nail after nail, each coffin embracing a body, torn and bloody, and he knew if he watched the coffins long enough, the bodies would sit up, one by one, and turn their dead faces toward him.

  “Robinson, wake up, open the door.”

  Jabez shook himself out of the nightmare and into consciousness, recognizing by the gray light of early dawn the shabby hotel room, the lumpy bed, the threadbare blankets. Whoever pounded on the door must have awakened the entire establishment by now. He rubbed his hand over his head and down his beard, rolled out of bed and into his trousers. He recognized the voice, now. It belonged to Albert Boone, Atchison’s partner. Boone pushed his way into the room without invitation, his bulk shrinking the already tiny chamber.

  “Get your clothes on, Doctor, you’re needed.” Boone looked around the room, saw Jabez’s coat and shirt slung over the back of the single chair and flung them at him. Jabez, never at his best first thing in the morning, flung them on the bed with a snarl.

  “The hell I am,” he said. “If you need a medical man, get your pal Stringfellow out of bed.”

  “Stringfellow’s already out of bed and mounted up,” Boone said. “We need you. You’re known to be neutral. There’s murder been done this night, and the abolitionists did it. You’re needed to witness and tend to the wounded.” He picked up the coat and held it out.

  Jabez tucked in his shirt, shrugged into his coat, tugged at his bootstraps. They knew as well as he did that Stringfellow, if a medical doctor at all, risked doing more harm than good to anyone ill or wounded. If there were wounded, Jabez would have to go. Couldn’t leave them to his “colleague’s” tender mercies. “Murder done where?”

  “Down to the south, place called Osawatomie, near forty miles. Men killed by night riders, hacked to pieces. Boy just rode in with the news.” Boone headed for the stairs. “We’ve got your horse saddled. It’s a long ride.”

  Jabez stopped to load his Colt, slid it into his pocket. He grabbed his medical bag and saddlebags and followed the man down the stairs.

  They rode a hellishly long time, south of Blanton’s Bridge down the California Road, across the prairie in the growing light. Eight riders strung along the trail: Boone and Atchison, Stringfellow, a major from the territorial militia, Jabez, and three men he didn’t know. In Prairie City they rested the horses, ate, then pushed on. Jabez spoke rarely to his companions. Atchison, once again affected by drink, said not a word the entire day. The others kept whatever grim thoughts they had to themselves.

  Early in the evening they forded Ottawa Creek and the Marais River and at dusk reached Mosquito Creek, horses blowing and stumbling with exhaustion. A tiny store perched on the verge of the road, along the stream’s bank, surrounded by a hard-packed dirt yard littered with rusty equipment and trash. The store itself consisted of a rough cabin, its shelves half-filled with canned goods, tools, flour and grain, its windows broken. A dozen men and women milled around both inside and outside the store, several helping themselves to foodstuffs and goods. Lanterns lit up the yard, wavering over men with hunting rifles and sidearms, bowie knives and cudgels. A woman and a child huddled on the porch, wrapped in threadbare quilts, their eyes red and swollen. The child shivered under her quilt.

  Jabez’s party dismounted. The local men kept rifles pointed in their direction until Atchison identified himself and his companions. Then the story tumbled out, angrier and wilder with each telling. Five men dead, dragged from their homes and hacked to death, women terrorized. Jabez listened for a few moments, then turned his attention to the two on the porch. The child needed medical attention, she was in danger of falling so deeply into shock that she might not emerge. He lifted his medical bag from the saddle horn, took out a vial of laudanum. Sending one of the women for water, he knelt next to the woman and child.

  “Ma’am, my name is Robinson. I’m a doctor. I need to know if you or your daughter is injured in any way.”

  The woman scowled. “Hell, yes, we’re hurt. Them men killed my man and my two boys. What do you think, we’re all right?”

  He laid a hand on the little girl’s forehead. “She’s chilled. She needs hot food, then sleep.” He added laudanum to the water and handed the tin mug to the mother. “Drink.” He took back the mug and helped the child to drink and turned to the gathered knot of women.

  “The child needs hot soup. And they need beds. If they can’t get to their own home, make up beds in the store.” He turned back to the mother. The laudanum was already having a calming effect. “What’s your name?”

  “Mahala Doyle. My man’s Jim Doyle.” She turned her head away, tears starting again. “Was. Was Jim Doyle.” Jabez handed her his handkerchief.

  “Robinson.” Boone gestured, and Jabez left the two to the ladies, crossed the yard to where the men gathered lanterns and prepared to move down the road. “We’re going to see what happened. You’re needed to come along.”

  Jabez secured Jupiter next to a water trough, then grabbed a lantern and followed the group on foot. Behind him came a wagon driven by two of the local men. The road was heavily wooded, dusk had long ago faded into darkness. Beyond the circle of light thrown by the lanterns, the night closed in with a soft, velvety feel that comes with spring, a breeze blowing up the creek with a gentleness that riffled invisible leaves and echoed the music of running water. But it carried with it the acrid smell of blood and death. Jabez hated the scent.

  First they saw a dog, a hulking bulldog that sprawled belly up, legs stiff, in the middle of the road. In the light of the lantern, its blood pooled black and sticky in the dust. Its head lay at an unnatural angle, and Jabez realized only the spine held it to the body. No ordinary bowie knife sliced that deep. As he studied the animal, a beetle, an inch long and iridescent green, crawled out from the neck wound.

  Another hundred yards. One of the men called out, an answer sounded from ahead. “Jesus Christ, Martin,” the voice said, “you know what it’s like being here with them? I ain’t going to volunteer for guard duty no more.” The man’s voice shook. The apparent spokesman for the locals, a man named Martin White, turned to Atchison. “We got men staked out at the bodies, so animals don’t get at them. Wanted you to see where they lay, how it was with them
.” White turned back to the guard, said, “All right, Pete, we’ll take it from here. You go on back and get some dinner. We’ll be bringing them in once the Senator sees things.” With obvious relief, Pete pushed past the line of men and scurried back toward the store.

  The men formed a circle, lanterns illuminating the two bodies. They lay back to back, nearly touching. As with the dog, rivers of blood spread out from beneath them, soaked into the dust, congealed in rivulets in the ruts. Jabez knelt beside the closer body, held his lantern high, and his stomach tightened. Little more than a boy, early twenties maybe. He’d been chopped and hacked until his features disappeared. Open wounds gaped at the shoulders, the arms severed. One limb lay twisted under him, attached only by a sinew, the sleeve black and stiff with blood. The other sprawled nearly a yard away, the fingers and wrist mangled and sliced as if he had tried to ward off the blows with his bare hands.

  The features on the second body remained intact, the bulbous nose and gray hair of an older man. This must be Mrs. Doyle’s man, her Jim. Though slash marks covered the trunk, a hole in the right temple surrounded by powder burns indicated he may have died a quicker and more merciful death.

  Jabez stood, blew out his lips and turned to Atchison. “These are saber wounds, obviously. Cutlasses. Sharp and heavy, not the type of ceremonial sword or even fighting sword the cavalry carries. Something bigger, maybe a broadsword.”

  Atchison cursed under his breath, staring down at the bodies. Boone and the major muttered, their faces in the lamplight ferocious. Stringfellow leaned down and turned the boy’s head. Sightless eyes looked up at the men above them. “Goddamn abolitionists,” he said. “We’ll get them for this, by God we will.” He kicked at a pool of blood and spat into the dust.

  Martin White turned to his men. “Load them up, boys. We got others to look to.” He turned toward the creek and headed down the slope. Here the trees thinned out. They felt grass under foot, the ground soft and damp. Another hundred feet and White stopped, lifting his lantern high. “Here’s the young one. This one’s Drury Doyle.” The men parted for Jabez.

  The body lay on its belly, dressed only in a nightshirt. The bare buttocks, legs bent and curled into the body, made the boy look young and vulnerable. His arms, too, were hacked away, a gash ran through the crown of his head. Again, the swords had been at work, there was no sign of a compassionate gunshot. Jabez carefully smoothed a lock of hair, matted and sticky with blood, covering a portion of the wound. He stood. There was nothing to be said. The group turned back up the slope, leaving two men to wrap the boy in blankets and place him in the wagon with his father and brother.

  In grim silence, they walked another half mile down the road to a cabin lit by a blazing fire in the scrubby yard. A half dozen men and two or three women clustered in the shadows or tended the fire. Two men approached White and spoke in low voices, eyes shifting to the Atchison group of strangers. After a moment, White looked up, and he signaled to Jabez. “Miz Wilkinson’s inside. She’s sick, has need of a doctor.” He motioned to the cabin. Jabez pushed his way through the throng in the yard and past a trestle table, flush up against the house, on which a body rested. Dressed in trousers and stockings, no shoes, no shirt or coat, the head and side showed gashes, the throat had been slit ear to ear. An old woman dipped a cloth in a bloody basin and washed the man’s wounds. Two three-dollar gold pieces weighted down his eyelids. Jabez paused to look for a moment, and a deep sadness welled up in him. He turned and stepped into the dimly-lit interior. The cramped front room held a bed, pushed against the back wall and covered with tumbled bedclothes. A pungent smell of unwashed bodies and sickness mixed with the oily smell of a lantern and the scent of death. On the bed huddled a woman and two children, all three disheveled and dirty.

  He found a stool lying upturned and set it beside the bed, his medical bag on his knees. The woman shrank against the wall, squeezing the young ones to her. Lank, dull red hair hung in strings over her face. She wore a nightdress, the shoulder seam ripped, a faded ribbon hanging undone from the neckline. The children, like terrified wild cubs, clutched at her, great dark eyes fastened on his face.

  Jabez clasped his hands together over his bag, his voice low and gentle. “Mrs. Wilkinson, my name is Doctor Robinson. I understand you’ve been ill.”

  For a moment, there was no response from the woman, then she nodded, a quick jerk of the head. With the movement, her hair swung back from her face, and Jabez saw nasty pustules covering the skin of her cheeks, forehead, neck. She cheeks glowed red, her eyes shone with fever. “How long have you been broken out like that?” he asked, laying a hand on her forehead. She was burning.

  “Two days. Three days. I don’t rightly know.”

  “Are you hurt anywhere else? Were you wounded by the attackers?” He held her thin wrist, counting the beats of her blood through dry, papery skin.

  “No, no, nothing like that.” She didn’t pull away her hand, even loosened her grip on the children.

  “You have the measles, Mrs. Wilkinson.” He set her hand carefully on the coverlet. “Have the children suffered from them yet?”

  “No sir, they been sick before but never with this rash.”

  “Well, they will undoubtedly get it, too.” He opened his bag, pulled out a tin of salve and a bottle of powder. He cast about the cabin for drinking water and a mug, mixed in an amount of powder and handed it to her. She drank as he smoothed salve over the pustules on her cheeks and forehead. “Now, you do it, while I watch. Don’t get too much.” He indicated the spots on her neck and breast, and she haltingly dabbed at them.

  The light from the doorway dimmed, as the stout form of David Atchison filled it. “Miz Wilkinson,” he said, his voice too large for the room, “sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I need to know what happened here.” He lowered his bulk onto the end of the bed. The children, who had begun to calm at Jabez’s quiet words, cowered against their mother, terrified all over again.

  Others crowded into the cabin—Boone, Stringfellow, the militia officer, Marvin White, a couple of neighbors—and Jabez glared at them to keep a respectful distance from the frightened family. One or two had the grace to look abashed and stepped out the door. Atchison paid no attention.

  “Who was it, ma’am? Did you see the men?”

  Mrs. Wilkinson plucked at the quilt over her legs with a shaky hand. But when she spoke, her voice was sharp with bitterness and her eyes flashed in the lantern light.

  “I did. They was five or six of them, and the old man was in charge. He was the one who told Al to get himself out of the house. Wouldn’t let him even put his boots on.”

  “The old man,” Atchison said. “Did you know him?”

  “No, I never seen him before,” she said, “but I’ll know him if ever I see him again.” She pulled the littler one close and rested her chin on the top of his head. “He was tall, had to stoop to get in the door there, taller than Al by a head. Al had to look up at him.” Her eyes teared up. “Didn’t seem fair, him so much bigger than Al.” She swiped a hand across her eyes and shook her hair back. “Had a long narrow face, kind of horse-like. Filthy clothes, all black, dirty old straw hat.”

  “Did you see any of the others?”

  “Naw, one of them came in to get the saddles, they stole both the saddles, but they’d taken out the light and I couldn’t see him much. They called him Owen, though, I did hear that.”

  Atchison turned to Boone and Stringfellow. “Owen Brown. This is the work of old John Brown and his boys,” he said, “just like you thought.” He nodded at White. “Here’s proof.”

  He stood and patted Mrs. Wilkinson on the head, an awkward gesture. “We’ll catch the killers that did this, ma’am, and when we do, you can be the one to send them to the gallows.” He turned to the local men. “Take care of the little lady, boys. We’ll need her testimony.” He grinned, wholly without humor. “Unless of course they somehow
don’t make it alive to trial, hey?”

  There were mutters of agreement and approval from the men in the room. Jabez stood, put the powder and the salve on a ledge above the headboard. Back outside the men loaded Wilkinson’s body in with the Doyles, and a second wagon pulled into the yard, bearing yet another mutilated corpse, the fifth victim of the past night’s work. Jabez glanced at this last body and turned away. Torn flesh, the evidence of uncontrolled anger and madness, of vigilante justice. He settled his hat on his head, grasped his medical bag and a lantern, and started back up the road without waiting for the others.

  22

  Summer 1856

  Agnes, I'm to be married,” Billy said, leaning forward tentatively in Agnes’s new-bought Salem rocker. Elbows on knees, hands twitching together restlessly, he peered at her from under heavy black brows.

  “So I hear tell.” She smiled at him, wondering why the nervousness, and ceased snapping beans. “I know little of Julia, but I very much like what I’ve seen.” They sat in the evening shade on the vest-pocket front porch of Agnes’s very own little house.

  He grinned a quick, pleased grin and sat back. “Well, that’s that then. I wanted your approval.”

  “My approval?”

  “Well, sure, you always seem to know what’s right, so I figure if you say this is a good thing, then it is.”

  “Would you jilt her if I hadn’t approved?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Nope.”

  “Well then.” She set down her bowl and leaned forward to give him a hug. “I offer you my heartiest congratulations and think you’ve made an admirable choice.”

  Agnes had yet to meet the girl, Julia, who lived in Forest City, but Sam and Rachel approved, and Billy beamed with satisfaction. He’d returned from California a full-grown man, broad-shouldered and thick-chested like his father, opinions and disposition tempered by variety and experience. Agnes took pride in him, and valued his opinion as much as he valued hers.