West Of The War

by L. J. Martin

  I don’t know if that’s good news or bad as he’s brought the law down on us and done it so much faster and with much more vigor than I gave him credit. The good news is we can bind him up, get him in the saddle, and send him packing after the rest of the posse without the worry of him bleeding out. Not that it would be much worry to me.

  It takes us most of an hour to tie Scroggins draped over the saddle of his horse, to get Humbree situated, and send him after the others, leading Scroggins’s body draped horse. By his attitude toward the trailing load, I won’t be surprised if he dumps it first chance after he’s out of sight.

  “Now what?” Ian says, as Humbree and his burden disappear into the woods.

  “Same plan, only we’re all gonna cross over to Brunswick.”

  “You got the coin for three of us and a dozen head?”

  “I got the coin.”

  “Then let’s get moving. Them old boys are still well heeled and might be coming back.”

  I have to laugh at that. “They won’t be coming back until they round up a half dozen more. Pearl done discouraged them.”

  “Damn if she didn’t,” he says, and we both laugh.

  Now, to distance ourselves from the law and get on the river, heading to somewhere Ian can tie up with folks planning or maybe already constructing the Transcontinental, and I can put miles and Big Muddy water behind me and get my feet in Dakota Territory.

  And Pearl? At least she’ll be in country where a nigra woman can run free, and damned if she hasn't earned it.

  It takes us just over two hours to find the ferry station across the river from Brunswick, and another hour to wait for its arrival. It’s big enough for a coach and four up so it can accommodate the six mares, four mules, our three riding horses, and the three of us.

  The crossing doesn’t cost a dime, much less a chunk of gold from my saddlebags. I make a fine bargain as I trade ol’ Jack, my big donkey, for our passage—as much as he’s served McTavish Farm and the six percherons well, creating dozens of fine mules, I’m happy to be shed of the trouble maker. After giving the ferryman a bill of sale, we leave Jack—braying like hell won’t have it—tied to a post oak on shore, next to the shack that serves the ferry.

  The ferryman, Silas Throckmorton, like the deputy who came along with Scroggins, is a man with a missing wing. His gray hair testifies to his loyalty to whatever side he served, as, at the beginning of the war, he’d have been old enough to stay on the farm. His left arm is off at the shoulder. Midstream, I ask, “Where’d you serve?”

  He glances over at Ian who’s leaning on the rail, palavering with Pearl, then turns back to me. “I see your friend there still wears the butternut. You a southern man?”

  “Served with Mosby. Captured, as a field promoted captain, and did over a year at Camp Butler in Springfield before I was paroled with the swore to God promise to head west. And I don't swear lightly.”

  “Then I guess I’ll tell you I lost the arm at New Madrid, last March. Shot off at the elbow by a damn Yankee, sawed off well above the wound by an over cautious sawbones. Daddy died…made it four score and seven…the Christmas before and as I was youngest of five and didn't get the land, he left me this ferry. We owned them five,” he nods at the five black men working the four oars and tiller, “but I always treated the darkies fair and they stayed with me after the damn Union burned our home place, run my brothers and sisters off, and set our darkies free.”

  I cross over to where my horse is tied to a makeshift picket line down the center line of the ferry and dig into my saddlebag then return. “Can I beg a favor then?”

  “And what would that be?”

  “An abolitionist son of a bitch who was the sheriff of Marshal County, down river, stole my land and stock while I was away in arms and came to hang me upon my return. He did not live to fulfill the task, but I imagine many of the other Union boys will take umbrage and be on my tail.” I hand him a twenty dollar gold piece. “I’d be obliged if’n you’d tell them you saw us pass by on the other side of the river, should they come asking.”

  “Sounds like you might need that twenty. Y’all hang onto it. I got lockjaw comes to helpin’ yanks.”

  “I’m obliged. I’m headed up to Dakota, Fort Benton if we get that far, to start fresh.”

  “You might be headed to Montana Territory. Leslies Weekly says it looks to be split off from Dakota and Washington, maybe already has.”

  I shrug. “So long as there’s gold to be grubbed or hides or beavers or some damn thing. I swore to it, and I’m headed west.”

  “God help you, son. Your mares and mules will be valuable out in the territories. They’ll give you a fine start. But It’s a savage land you're headin' to.”

  “And it’s a damn savage land I’m leaving. I'm still willin' to hand over this gold eagle, you do right by me.”

  "Don't insult me son, or even one-armed I'm likely to chuck you overboard. I'm a southern man and I do what I say, when I say, how I say, and I done said it."

  "My apologies, sir. I've overstepped my bounds."

  "Go west and do well for yourself and proud for the south. Field promotion all the way to captain? Sounds like you already done the south proud."

  “I hope so, sir.” I look over my shoulder and see the ferry landing approaching, so I turn back to Mr. Throckmorton. “And what are the sympathies of the folks in Brunswick?”

  “Put it this way, I would not have your friend wander about in those butternut trousers.”

  As we unload, I caution Ian and Pearl of the local sympathies and direct them into the woods to lay low and find graze for the stock. With a piece of lead rope I measure Ian’s waist and inseam, preparing to see if I can find a seamstress or a pair of ready made trousers rather than those he wears.

  One small building near the wharf serves as ticket office for a number of side wheelers, but only two are bound for Fort Benton, Dakota. The Emilie and the Bold Eagle. The Emilie being the only boat over one hundred feet to ever have made the run, and her two hundred ten feet with more than a thirty foot beam. Her captain, a fellow name of Le Barge, must be a skilled river man. She is now in St. Louis, headed back this way in a fortnight. The Eagle, a boat I’m assured has a shallow draft and a competent captain, is due here tomorrow. Only one hundred forty feet in length and thirty four beam, rumored to only draw just a little over thirty inches fully loaded, she should have an easier time of the twisty, shallow at times, and snag filled Big Muddy. If she makes the run as quickly as has the Emilie, the trip will take only a touch over thirty days, rather than the more than two months, probably two and a half, it would take horseback, if we could make twenty miles to the day average…and with winter coming on? I’m worried that coming winter—possible rains and high water—will keep the boat tied ashore somewhere between here and there. Then, come Spring, she'll face a bombardment of ice floes.

  But if she's forced to lay up, wherever that may be, it'll be a far piece from a Marshal County posse.

  I find a buyer for two of my mares and pocket another one hundred dollars—had to sell them way too cheap—leaving four mares, four mules and three gelding riding horses.

  It costs me one hundred dollars apiece for Ian and I, paid with the understanding that if Ian disembarks along the way, I’ll be refunded one half the difference of his fare for the rest of the trip. And it’s only that inexpensive as we’ll camp next to the horse stalls with our bedrolls and not eat but two meals a day each. And it’s two hundred dollars well spent if it saves me six weeks and the dangers of Indian country—Indians who I’m assured will dog our trail to steal our stock.

  The horses and mules are one dollar per day each for the transportation and fifty cents per day for feed, with the understanding I can unload them nightly and skip the feed if there’s graze—as after a week we’ll be tying up every night as the river becomes more and more tricky to navigate. So long as I have them back on board one half hour before daylight. With eleven head to feed, it will be well wort
h the effort. Besides, the feed is only a generous fork full of meadow grass hay, and the Percherons require more.

  I ask him why so cheap for the critters, and he smiles and asks, "Them big ol' horses look like they could pull a mountain down."

  "They pull, and so do my mules."

  He merely nods. "Ever body pitches in on the rough uphill trip to Benton City."

  Even at that it seems a proud price to pay, but knowing that it costs ten dollars to haul a sack of flour from St. Louis to Fort Benton makes it more palatable.

  I buy a ticket using the name Nolan Byrne, a long lost second cousin of mine back in County Cork who I have corresponded with but never met, as it was the first to come to me. I list Ian as his own name, as none of those after us have any idea who he might be.

  Pearl will make out just fine in Brunswick with its northern sympathies.

  It takes me four hours to find Ian a pair of black canvas trousers, from a seamstress who made them for another soul who didn't show back to pick them up. And those have to be taken in to fit his waist, which is far narrower than his wide shoulders.

  As they’ve been more than merely fine companions, I find a mercantile and buy us a pound of coffee, a side of bacon, some hard biscuits, and the treat of two pounds of peaches sugared and put up in a crock. Having heard of Dakota, Idaho, and Washington winters I buy two pairs of Long Johns and plan to gift one to Ian.

  I track my companions from the ferry into the forest, and find them near a slow creek with every horse and mule staked in belly deep grass, a fine campfire, and coffee boiling.

  Ian has cut a willow pole and caught two fat catfish and a half dozen sunfish.

  We eat a satisfying meal and are finished before nightfall. Over coffee the subject of the trip on the Eagle comes up. I turn to Pearl.

  “I will leave you with a twenty dollar gold piece, Pearl—”

  “You ain’t leaving me, Mister McTavish.”

  “This will be a very hard trip…no place for a woman. Even a woman tough as you. You’re staying here or going on somewhere else.”

  “You, sir, are a thankless som’bitch. And that not be a reflection on your dear mama.”

  I'm taken aback by her forwardness. I start to object, but Ian jumps into the discussion. “Brad, I seem to remember Miss Pearl here saving your hide from an ugly old boy who was eager to see you swing. If I got a vote in this, I vote Miss Pearl goes along to the territories.”

  That makes me clamp my jaw, "You ain't got no vote." Then I turn back to Pearl. “I’ll give you two gold pieces. That’s forty dollars, Pearl. More money than you’ve ever seen.”

  “No, sur.”

  “Fifty dollars, and that’s my final offer.”

  Ian shakes his head in disgust, then turns and walks away, saying over his shoulder. “I believe I’ll be staying here with Miss Pearl, as you are a sorry som’bitch.”

  “I done paid a hundred dollars good money for your fare. And I just bought you a fine pair of long johns.”

  He turns back. “Ain't that something. You got some of your daddy's money. So, you offered her fifty to stay, so I guess it would only take another fifty for her to go. You got enough of your daddy's coin?”

  “None of your damn business,” I sputter, then spittin' angry, exclaim, “Damned if I don’t and how do you know it was daddy's? I lived on that farm, too, don't you know.” Fact is it was daddy's money, but he didn't know that.

  Pearl’s voice softens. “I know I never been much to you, Braden, but I did care for your daddy and for your mama when she woulda starved if I’d’a gone on with my own folk. And if I stay here, them Arrow Rock som’bitches will hang me sure. Seems that is what you aim to have happen?”

  My mouth goes dry and I get a flash of my daddy swinging. My mama and daddy cared for Pearl and her family, almost like family, slaves or no, and I’m suddenly flush in the face. I'm confused, and not for the first time. I'm feeling like the som'bitch she called me. Damn, if it ain't a confusing world.

  The fact is, it'll be a much more difficult time with a distraction as great as Pearl's womanliness. Should the truth be known.

  I rise and dump the rest of my tin cup of coffee in the fire to sizzle and steam, then turn to the two of them. “I’m riding back to town first thing in the morning to buy Pearl a ticket…but you got to sleep in the stable with us. There ain’t gonna be no lady-like quarters. You understand.”

  “Can’t be much worse,” she says, “than that damn ol’ cabin I was raised up in.”

  That makes my face flush even more. “I’m gonna roll up. I been chastised enough by the two of you.”

  “And damn if you didn’t deserve it,” Ian’s harsh words whack me in the back like a ’cat o nine tails’ as I stomp away.

  Chapter 8

  The Eagle is secured at the wharf taking on stores and a straggle of passengers—most boarded at St. Louis—when we arrive shortly after dawn. She must have arrived in the dark of night. The small stalls are located on the boiler deck just aft of the two twenty foot by seven foot round iron boilers and on either side of the seven foot by two foot round iron casing that hides the piston that drives the ship. The good of it is the area will be warm in the coldest of weather, the bad is if the boiler's blow—and it's not an uncommon occurrence on steam driven boats—the stock and the three of us will go meet our maker in high and hot style.

  At least three dozen cords of cut wood line the hull along either side and block the wind from the open sides of the boat. We're protected from the weather by six foot thick walls...however I'm sure they'll come and go as they are consumed.

  I'm concerned as the freight and boiler deck has only seven feet of clearance, and the crossbeams lower the headroom another foot in intervals. At over six feet in height, Ian will likely enjoy many lumps on the noggin if he's not careful, and the Percherons will spend their time with bent ears should they stand full tall.

  While Ian and I load the critters via an aft gangplank, I send Pearl on an errand. I'm sure all stores will be two or three times the cost, or more, as we get farther upriver. And lead and powder and other fixins are easy to haul on this wide boat among our belongings. And the two Iron ax heads and fine hunting knifes I've instructed her to buy will be necessities.

  The Sharps I've 'inherited' is as fine a weapon as any I've ever handled, much less owned—if you can call the way I acquired it owning. I have a clear conscience as I'd think if a feller tries to load you full of holes with a weapon, taking it is fair game.

  She's a 45-90 with a shell the size of my index finger and a chunk of lead in each that would likely bring down an elephant...and from what I've heard of the American Bison, he can be as tough as one. As a youth my father saw buffalo in western Missouri, where the Ozarks meet the prairie, but I've never had the pleasure. I'm sure I'll see plenty.

  After we get situated with our bedrolls alongside the stalls, Ian and I return to the wharf to watch the activity and wait for Pearl's return. Just as she comes our way, her arms loaded with paper wrapped packages, she has to jump aside, scattering her packages, as a passenger wagon pulled by a fine set of matching blacks with white blazes on their noses almost runs her down. The wagon is reined up near where we stand. The driver jumps down and extends his hand to a fancy dressed woman, perched amidst a pile of matching tan leather luggage.

  And she's not happy. She refuses his hand and steps down on her own, then turns to him and snaps, "That was careless of you. You made that young lady drop her packages and could have injured her badly."

  But he's not to be chastised, and snaps back at her. "Damn nigra should give way. Find someone else to haul your bags aboard. I was paid to deliver you and delivered you are." Rudely he spits a gob of chaw on the ground and backhands the dribble from a thick black bushy mustache.

  Ian moves even quicker than I do and edges the hack driver aside with a sharp elbow and a, "Stand aside and watch your lip before I split it for you." Being a half head taller and as broad as the driver, the m
an appraises him with a curled lip and bulging eyes, then reassesses and backs away silently. Ian turns to the lady.

  "Ma'am, I'd be proud to help you with your luggage."

  She flashes him a smile, and I realize how beautiful she is. Near Ian's age, at least fifteen years older than me, she still takes my breath away with wine colored hair and plenty of it piled on the back of her head, green eyes that seem to pierce to your very soul, skin as smooth and flawless as the fine kid leather on her many bags, and she has other attributes a gentleman shouldn't mention.

  Ian turns back to me. "Braden, grab a load here."

  I nod. The balance of the seats in the passenger wagon are taken up with fancy matching leather bags and a steamer trunk, another trunk is on the boot at the rear, all of the same matching tan leather and brass fittings.

  The lady walks back across the dusty street to where Pearl is trying to gather up dropped packages, and to my surprise bends and helps her.

  "Obliged, ma'am," Pearl says, admiring the lady with some wonderment as if she'd just descended from heaven, then moves to and up the wide gangplank, glancing back more than once.

  Ian and I have to make four trips, each carrying the end of a steamer trunk that's large enough to have held her husband and two children.

  I direct Pearl below with instructions to find our bedrolls and stow her packages, and Ian leads me down to where he offers the lady his arm. "May I escort you aboard, ma'am?" he asks. I have to smile as all I've seen is the rough side of him.

  Pearl has returned by the time we top the gangplank. Ian, who's acting like an Irish lord...at least until they top the gangplank and she has to step down to the deck. He's trying to help the process, but steps on the hem of her dress and we can hear it rip as she descends.

  "Oh, ma'am," he says, his face coloring. "I'm so sorry. I'm a clumsy oaf."

  "No problem. You've been kind. I can find someone to mend—"

  Before she finishes the statement, Pearl steps forward. "I have my sewing bag, ma'am. I'll be happy...."