Agnes Canon's War

by Deborah Lincoln

  She picked up the bowl and snapped another bean. “How do you like my house?”

  He glanced around as if he’d not noticed there was a house.

  “Pleasant,” he said. He grasped the porch post and shook it. “Seems sturdy.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “Much better than that. Only five years old and solid.” And all mine, she thought. Chosen by me, paid for by me.

  “A little small,” he said.

  “There’s only one of me. I have an indoor kitchen, a parlor and a bedroom. And a storeroom. And a fruit cellar.”

  “All the comforts, then. Maybe Julia and I can get something like this.”

  “You and Julia will have something much nicer than this. You’ll need room for the babies.”

  He raised his brows at her.

  “They’ll come soon enough. You’d best be planning.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well.” He gazed down the street, not much more than a trail, that led into town. Her view consisted of the back door of the Baptist church and the chicken pens and apple trees behind houses on Jefferson Street. A top-heavy white pine crouched at the corner of the lot, and dried mud and ruts cratered the front yard where John had unloaded her small possessions. She thought it lovely.

  “Agnes, don’t you think you’ll be lonely here?” Billy leaned forward again and lay a hand on the arm of her chair. “You’re used to Nancy’s house, all the children.…”

  “A little too used to them,” she said and patted his hand. “A woman can be lonely in the middle of a crowded house or she can be lonely in her own home. I’ve always been beholden to someone else, and I don’t intend to live out my life that way.”

  “But a woman alone.” He waived his hand as if that explained all.

  “What about a woman alone?”

  “Well, it just ain’t safe,” he said.

  “I can’t imagine what isn’t safe about it. No one’s going to attack a spinster living nearly hand to mouth. It isn’t as if I have a pile of cash money under the floorboards.”

  “But you might still marry.”

  She put down the beans. “Billy.” She fixed him with her best school-marm look. “I’m thirty-one years old. And a half. I’m too used to managing my own affairs without subjecting them to the control of a husband.”

  “I thought maybe you and Doc Robinson..…”

  Her face flushed furiously and her tongue refused to work properly. She bent over to place the bean bowl on the porch. “Doctor Robinson and I are friends. We talk politics and books, and that’s the extent of it.”

  “Politics and books can lead to all sorts of things.” His smile broadened.

  “Mostly to arguments, if political talk these days is any indication.” She tucked a loose tendril behind her ear, stood and smoothed her apron. “Besides, the talk among the ladies is that he’s sparking a widow in St. Joseph.”

  “You might ask him yourself,” Billy said, settling back in his chair. “Here he comes.”

  She sat with a whoosh of skirts and looked up the street. Sure enough, there came the doctor, on foot, a smile splitting his beard and a bundle of pasque flowers and prairie roses in his hand.

  “Sparking the widow, huh?” Billy said softly.

  

  “Manifest destiny,” Billy said. “This country can spread from one coast to the other, we’ll be the most powerful country in the world. But not if we let any state that wants to break away whenever they get a burr up their ass.”

  “Destiny be damned,” Jabez said. “Is that what you learned in California? What you’ve got is a powerful set of fanatics like John Brown who’re bound and determined to exterminate a society. First the south, then the natives, then the Mexicans. It’s all economics and who’ll control the purse.”

  Agnes stood in the shadows of her tiny parlor, coffee tray in hand, listening through the open window. The argument was repeated again and again on church steps, in the dry goods store, at dinner tables all over town and, she supposed, all over the state and the country. From where she stood she could see Jabez’s profile. He leaned forward in his chair, black brows drawn in a furious scowl, fists knotted. Billy had no chance against him in argument; he was a master. Whatever had happened to him in Kansas during the spring, his arguments, angry and bitter now, usually attacked the radicals of the north.

  She stepped to the door, and the conversation stopped. Billy jumped to take the tray. He held it while Agnes poured, then dropped to the top step with his cup. “Agnes, how’d you like to live in the new country of Missouri? Aristocrats telling you what to do. Maybe we could elect a king.”

  “That’s a bit far-fetched,” she said. “I don’t yet know my mind on secession. But Doctor Robinson has a point about what’s worth fighting for. It’s slavery I care about—I don’t see any civilized country can make any progress at all until it’s gone.”

  “Well it ain’t going to die out of its own,” Billy said. He looked off toward the setting sun. “They can grow cotton in Texas and use slaves in the mines out west. We’re either going to be a slave country or a free-labor country. No in-between.”

  Jabez harrumphed. “You can’t force slavery on people who’re unwilling to have it. Douglas had it right, let legitimate settlers vote on slavery and they’ll vote no. You see any slaves in Kansas now? Or Nebraska? It won’t happen.”

  “But you want to break up the country anyway.”

  “What I don’t want is war.”

  “Will you fight if it comes to war?”

  “I’m too old.” Jabez poked at Billy with his toe. “Leave it to you young fellows. I’ll be the one patching up the wounded.”

  “I’ll fight. I’d sure hate to fight against you, Doc.”

  “Not against me. I’m not on one side or the other.”

  “Aldo Beaton says you’re a secessionist. Rufus Byrd said you ought to be run out of town.”

  “Rufus Byrd is a pea-brained trouble-maker,” Agnes said. “No one’s going to listen to him.”

  “My pa says you’re one of Atchison’s men.”

  Jabez thumped his coffee cup down. “You can tell your pa—”

  “That’s enough.” Agnes stood. “I won’t have my family and friends at each other’s throats. Billy.” She jammed her fists at her waist and glared at him. “You’re too smart to listen to drivel. And you, Doctor.” She scowled at him. “Your temper will get you into more trouble than it’s worth. You’re a leader in this town. You have a duty to calm people down, not rile them up.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Jabez stood and bowed stiffly. “I beg your pardon, Madam,” he said and stalked off the porch.

  Agnes sighed. “Well, I suppose now he’ll go back to sparking the widow.”

  

  Jabez’s spate of temper was short-lived, as always, and Agnes saw him often that terrible summer of killing and burning along the border. By fall, an uneasy peace settled in, and the town’s factions took a breath before the upheaval of the November elections.

  Late in September, trees brilliant and grain harvested, Lick Creek’s townsfolk gathered on the courthouse square. They clustered around long trestle tables, indulging in chicken salad, roasted corn, green bean casseroles, beet root and eggs, drop dumplings, squash pie, pound cake. Conversation flowed with a conviviality sparked by a successful growing season for a plump and prosperous community.

  The Zooks sat companionably with the McIntoshes, their commercial rivalry set aside for the afternoon. Mr. and Mrs. Moodie and the Reverend Fuller hovered about old Mrs. Finley. The Irvines, proclaimed Unionists, sat next to the Caytons, leaning secessionist, so their daughters Annie and Margaret could put their heads together and whisper. Aldo Beaton paid court to Miss Baxter, who wore the widest crinolines in town and whose mama continued to view Jabez as a prospective son-in-law. Cyrus Cook talked school business
with Mr. Collins and John Jackson, and Jabez lowered himself next to Agnes with a smile and a nod in their direction.

  “Your cousin John appears to be recruiting old Cyrus into the education business,” he said, digging into a plate of glazed ham, mashed sweet potato and biscuits.

  “John’s thinking ahead,” she replied. “The good folk of Holt County are producing young ones like rabbits. Someone needs to educate them.”

  Agnes studied her cousin’s husband. John’s rugged profile was still handsome, his graying hair distinguished, blue eyes intense.

  “Old flames die hard, eh?” Jabez said. He glanced at John, slanted a sideways look at Agnes.

  She wasn’t surprised. It seemed natural that Jabez knew her so well. “I gave over that infatuation many years ago. Very childish.”

  He mixed a forkful of butter into his sweet potato. “He’s a good man. None better.”

  “He’s always been my standard. But I don’t compare every man I know to him.” She inspected an ear of corn. “Just most.”

  “I’m delighted to hear that,” Jabez said, cleaning up the last of the sweet potato with a chunk of biscuit. His attention strayed to the street, where a buggy rolled to a stop. “What do you think of Mr. Cundiff and his wife? I hear he’s taken on the newspaper.”

  “He’s printing Mrs. Stowe’s new book in serial. It’s called Dred.”

  “Fatuous and sentimental, isn’t she?”

  “Not at all,” she protested. “It’s a riveting story and I’m enjoying it immensely.”

  “Any better than Uncle Tom?” he said, waving at a fly.

  “You haven’t read it, then?”

  “Haven’t had the time, I guess.” He attended to another biscuit. “You’ll have to tell me how it ends.”

  “No, indeed, you’ll have to read it for yourself. How can you judge when you haven’t read it?”

  “I just know a woman of her background wouldn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “You don’t think any of this is true, then? She isn’t authentic?”

  “Oh, I think she’s authentic as far as it goes. But she never lived it, did she?” He leaned on one elbow, turned toward her. “I prefer Mr. Whitman. I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs.” He flashed a smile.

  “Whitman is one of those forbidden fellows, isn’t he? Young ladies aren’t supposed to read him.”

  “I think that’s the case, yes. Especially the part about I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs….”

  “Well, good thing I’m no longer a young lady, then, isn’t it? Do you have a copy I can borrow?”

  “Of course, my dear Miss Canon. I wouldn’t want it said that I hadn’t grasped every available opportunity to lead a lady to imprudence. Young or not.” He set aside his plate and pulled out a cigar.

  

  Jabez loaned Agnes his Whitman, and she loaned him her Margaret Fuller. She learned a great deal from him about politics and governance, and she taught him history and literature, subjects he had neglected.

  “You find me a poor pupil, I think,” he sighed when she’d read the latest installment of Little Dorrit from Harper’s magazine during an after-dinner gathering at the Jacksons’.

  “You learn well enough when you’re interested,” Agnes said. “It’s just that I persist in boring you to distraction.”

  He smiled at her and reached out, as if to tuck a strand of her hair away, then sat back and took the coffee cup Nancy passed. “No,” he said. “Impossible.”

  23

  Agnes never expected to marry, nor at the advanced age of thirty-two did she think much on it. And she did all she could to resist the tempting idea that a good friend might become something more. She had her own home, her independence, no one to direct her thoughts and activities. But when the rumors revived concerning Doctor Robinson and the widow in St. Joseph, she suffered.

  He spent a great deal of time there. As November and the presidential election neared, he published articles in the newssheets in support of the Democrat Buchanan, praising his experience and temperament and cautioning against the new Republicans. His tone was moderate, and she complimented him on his ability to keep his temper under wraps.

  “It’s a struggle, Agnes,” he said, shifting in the rocking chair on her front porch. She couldn’t remember when he first began addressing her by her Christian name, but he fell into the habit when they spoke seriously. When he teased her or displayed his fearsome wit, she became “Miss Canon” again. “There’s so much hyperbole in the press these days my inclination is to tell them all they’re fools and dogs. But someone has to appeal to the minority who show some intelligence, and that’s what I try to do.”

  She was at that moment little interested in his political writings. “Do you visit any particular friend when you go to St. Joe?”

  “There’s Governor Price’s men, and there’s Mr. Hall. Judge Treat from St. Louis has been there.”

  “And do you visit no ladies when you go?” She concentrated so intently on the embroidery in her lap, she pricked her finger.

  He gave her an odd look. “Well, yes, I do visit about. Why do you ask?”

  She looked up, sucking her finger, and laughed. “Oh, you know, the ladies here talk. Miss Baxter still hasn’t relinquished her claim to you, but I believe if you let it be known there’s someone in St. Joe, you’ll convince her once and for all.”

  “I see.” He studied her with an intensity that made her flush. “I do see a certain Mrs. Rawlings. She’s the widowed sister of Mr. Hall, and she’s usually at home when I call on him.” He turned away. “She’s quite attractive, young, intelligent.” He took a long pull on his cigar and gazed across the street.

  “Eliza would be so pleased.”

  He looked startled. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “She would approve of your, well, of your getting out, meeting new people.…” She tapered off, returned to her embroidery, concentrating on a featherstitch.

  “So the ladies of Lick Creek have married me off to this mysterious St. Joe lady, have they?”

  “No, no, not at all.” She’d have given anything to extricate herself from the conversation. “I assure you I won’t share your news.”

  “There’s no news to share, Miss Canon. By the way, I see our friend Mr. Beaton’s been escorting you from church lately?”

  “I’ll make a bargain with you, Doctor.” She tucked the embroidery hoop into its bag. “I’ll keep you apprised of my courtships if you’ll tell me about yours.”

  He gave her an unreadable look, then his singular grin, a flash of white in the midst of the silky beard. “That’s a deal.”

  

  Jealousy is a ready inducement to passion. Affection, friendship, solicitude for another may flourish, but when a potential rival enters the picture, serenity flies out the window, and one’s peace of mind follows. Suddenly affection turns into adoration, friendship grows into love, solicitude mutates into possessiveness. Agnes spent the winter in the throes of resentful vigilance, tracking his trips to St. Joseph, tallying the days of his absence, teasing him when he returned. She surreptitiously gathered information on the odious Mrs. Rawlings and discovered, through the good offices of Mrs. Norman, who traveled often to St. Joseph and St. Louis with her husband, that the lady in question was much younger (by at least five years), possessed light hair and a delicate complexion (similar to Eliza), and controlled a comfortable fortune settled on her by her late husband. Whether Jabez showed any particular attention to her while in St. Joe, Mrs. Norman couldn’t say, as she never saw both in company at the same time.

  Agnes’s distress continued long after the election ended and his trips to St. Joseph dwindled to no more than every two weeks or so, though she managed to greet him with aplomb when they met on the street or he dropped by to loan her a pamphlet or borrow a book. He honored her
by sharing a letter from Maine announcing the death from consumption of his sister Mary. He even allowed her to read it. His old father expressed his grief for his lost children and his fondness for those who remained in the artless and florid style of a by-gone generation. Agnes warmed to him as she read his letter. Knowing even a little of the father helped her know more of the son. She suggested to Jabez that he might want to visit Maine when the weather cleared, and he allowed as he might do that. But he never did.

  

  As the wet and dreary spring of 1857 advanced, Jabez stayed close to Lick Creek. Mud clogged the nearly impassible roads, and spring storms swept out of the western plains in sheets, accompanied by battering thunder and formidable lightning, gale winds and icy sleet. Farmers feared for the spring plowing and sowing. Not until June did true summer appear, and then it dropped in all at once like a curtain let loose on a stage. One morning the sun rose at six, and the temperature climbed by thirty degrees. The hazy, soporific days of a Missouri summer were upon them, the rich scents of fields and meadows and creeks permeating the town, and the rumbles of trouble seemed far away. Kansas continued quiet, the occasional burning, a contested election or two, nothing unwonted.

  School adjourned for the summer, and Billy and Julia set up housekeeping toward the Missouri River bluffs in sight of the steamboats heading north and west. Elizabeth grew large again with child—once she got the way of it she enthusiastically kept it up—and Tom added on yet another room to their farmhouse, more acreage to their prosperous orchards.

  Jabez, who spent the stormy spring months medicating the county’s ague, flux, grippe and rheumatism-ridden citizens, contracted a lingering fever himself. For much of June he languished, shut up at home. Agnes visited him as often as was decent without raising eyebrows, and they talked. He told her about his sister Angeline, suffering from consumption. “She always wanted to do whatever Mary did,” he said with that graveyard humor doctors often favor. He spoke of his brother in Texas whose wife had died over the winter, leaving him with an infant. He’d begged the brother to come live in Missouri and made the same request of his father, but both refused to leave their homes. Canny men, they foresaw the conflict between north and south centering on the middle of the country, with Missouri and Kansas the focal point. Both in turn implored him to take up residence with one or the other of them, but “I too am attached to my home here,” he said, “and don’t want to move on. Perhaps I’m getting too old—” he smiled at her— “or maybe there are other incentives.” His smile disappeared. “But there may come a day when I’m no longer welcome here, depending on the swing of political opinions.”