by L. J. Martin
I nod, but offer no opinion. “So, are you ladies off to dinner?”
“We are. I’d ask you to join me but I’m sharing the captain’s table and it’s not my place to extend invitations.”
“And you, Pearly?” I ask.
She glances up. “I be—”
But Madam quickly corrects her. “I will be, or I am, please Pearl.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Pearl turns back to me. “I will be at another table, and I would be pleased to have you join me.”
I’m just a bit amazed. It seems Madam Allenthorpe is doing more than employing Pearl, she’s teaching her manners and citified proper speech. I have to smile.
As we reach the door to the main salon, the madam gives me a nod and polite smile and is seemingly apologetic. “I wouldn’t correct Pearl in front of others, however you know her past and there’s no hiding from an old…old friend.”
“That I do. I guess all we country folk could use some civilizing.”
“Maybe, as I help Pearl, she’ll pass it along.” I don't tell her I know the king's English, well taught by my mother, but like most, I fall back into the patterns of those around me.
She heads for a table near a wide expanse of glass window, where Captain Isaac Johanson and a couple of other officers are already seated, and I follow Pearl to another round table that seats eight. We join six other fellows, all of whom, save one, snatch their hats off and rise as Pearl takes a seat. The one who does not is a burly sort, thick with hard-work-earned muscle, dressed in rough clothes. His full black beard, except for a streak of white down one side, extends to mid chest and he’s got bushy eyebrows that almost shame the beard. His dark eyes are piercing as he glowers at Pearl, then me, then back at Pearl.
“That tops it all,” he says, his voice almost a growl, dripping condescension. He rises, taking with him a full plate of food he heads for the outside door.
Pearl ignores him and turns to the others. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she says, giving each of them a smile, then she shocks me a little.
“I’m Pearl Allenthorpe, may I make your acquaintance?” She can’t help but cut her eyes my way as she speaks, then as quickly looks away.
When a last name was called for, all the nigras on McTavish Farm had always used that name. Now she’s taken on Allenthorpe.
Each of them in turn introduces himself, giving her a polite nod.
“Reverend Sterling Hunter, recently of Princeton, New Jersey. Nice to meet you, young lady.” He is sporting a black wool suit, celluloid collared white shirt and four in hand black tie, top hat—before he removed it with Pearl’s arrival—with tufts of gray hair escaping, reminiscent of an etching I saw of the Union President Lincoln in Leslie’s Weekly. He is about as thin of face as the Illinois politician and as creviced if not as tall. Hunter may be a reverend, but that doesn’t keep him from sporting a stag gripped pocket Derringer which I make out in his waistcoat pocket. He stays seated, but the others rise as they introduce themselves.
I glance over my shoulder to see the man with the skunk striped beard staring at us through the window to our rear. He sees me watching him, and moves away.
The next fellow on the circle is a towhead, white-blond hair and darker blond stubby beard. “I am Lucas Eckland,” he says, with a heavy Swedish accent, and wide smile. He, too, is armed, a heavy butt-forward revolver on his side.
“Borg, here, Elton Borg,” the next man says. He, too, has an accent and merely nods as he bobs up and down in deference to a lady being seated, and returns to shoveling it in. I catch the glint of a silver handled heavy bladed knife on his side.
Both of them wear heavy shirts and trousers and I’d guess them to be lumberjacks, or such.
The last one is dusky brown, with ebony eyes and long slicked back hair to match, handsome were it not for hollow cheeks and bad teeth. He rises and gives Pearl a slight bow. “Don Enrique Aleandro Sanchez, from Cuba. I am honored to enjoy your acquaintance, Señorita.” His weapon of choice, at least all I can see, is a thin bladed dagger, shoved beneath a red sash he wears at his waist.
I remind myself to come heeled the next time I report for a meal aboard the Bold Eagle, and wonder if these fellas know something I don’t. I'd hate to face a gun battle with nothing but a dinner roll in hand. I’ve left the Sharps hidden in the wall and the Colt rolled in my bedroll below.
“And I’m Nolan Byrne,” I say, and get an inquisitive look from Pearl, but she doesn’t correct me, so I go on, “…and who was the rude jackass who seemed to take offense at…at us joining y’all?”
The reverend answers. “That, sir, is, I believe, one of Bloody Bill Anderson’s former lieutenants, if he’s who I think he is. As I recall, his name is Silas Jefferson Holland, although he did not introduce himself as such. His nickname, appropriately, is Skunk or so it has been reported, I suppose due to the white stripe in his mangy beard. The rumor is he killed a man for calling him that...a man who wasn't a fellow killer of women and children. He calls himself Wade Jefferson…but I believe that to be a nom-de-plume.”
“A what?” I ask.
“A false name, taken on, I imagine, to obscure his dastardly deeds.”
As he’s bringing up false names, I quickly change the subject. “So, reverend, you’re off to make your fortune in the gold fields?”
“No, young man, I’m off to convert the heathen to the true calling, to the one true Lord and his immaculately conceived son, our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“And the rest of you fellas?” I ask, slightly interrupting the reverend as it seemed he was about to launch into a sermon.
Each of them, in turn, says, “Gold.” So I guess we have something in common.
“Gentlemen,” Pearl says as she rises. “I believe I will serve myself.”
And the rest of us follow to a buffet table laden with food.
As we re-seat ourselves, the reverend doesn’t give us a chance to pick up spoons and forks before he enters into a lengthy blessing and I hear more than one audible sigh as he finally runs out of wind.
The balance of the meal is taken up with rumors of the gold strikes in Dakota Territory, the latest news of the war, and the latest boat to blow itself to smithereens on the river.
When we finish, I offer. “Miss Pearl, would you care to stroll the deck.”
“I’d be pleased,” she says, and we excuse ourselves and head outside.
As we walk, I ask. “I don’t imagine you’d consider sewing me up a contraption to conceal my money around my waist?”
“I’d be happy to do so. I don’t imagine you’d consider teaching me how to shoot?”
I laugh. “You going to take up fighting the savages in the territories?”
“No. Madam Allenthorpe has made me the gift of a pocket pistol, and as there’re a hundred men to every woman up river, I’d guess a few of them might want to take advantage.”
Giving her a sincere smile, I suggest, “Not so long as I’m in shoutin’ distance, Pearly.”
“I believe I heard you were off to load your mules with gold, and so will not be in shoutin’ distance.”
I think back on our past, and remember hunting with Ray, but never remember Pearl having a weapon of any kind in hand.
“I’d be pleased to teach you to load and shoot, Miss Pearl, so long as you promise to never put your lessons to use on my hide.”
She laughs, and as she does, Ray strides up behind us.
“Pearl, what you doin’ walkin’ with this rebel?”
I stop and turn and he almost walks into me. I shove him back with a hand, and think he’s about to swing a haymaker at me, so I drop back another step out of easy reach. My voice is low, with a bit of a rumble. “Raymond, I always treated you more like a brother than a slave.”
“You think that be it? You think I didn’t have to done do your biddin’, McTavish? I ain’t no brother of your’n. I’m a free man, wit a good job, an’ Pearl and I don’t need the likes of you around, no way, no how, no time. You done understa
n’?”
“Ray McTavish,” Pearl snaps, stepping between us, “this be a new time and we all is starting over. You stay away from Brad, you can’t be actin’ civil.”
I can see the muscles in his jaw and on his neck bulge in anger, and the spittle flies as he yells at his sister. “My name now be Raymond Lincoln Freeman. And you…you done be a no good bitch, that’s what you be,” and he spins on his heel and stomps away.
Pearl and I take up our walk again, in stony silence for a while, until she puts an arm in mine. “It be three generations—”
“It’s been,” I correct her, and she smiles.
“It’s been three generations of us doing exactly what the McTavish folks say to do, Brad—”
“It’s Nolan, at least for a while longer.”
“Nolan. You gots to give—”
“You’ve got to give,” I correct again.
“You’ve got to give Ray some time to get used to how things are now.”
“Ain’t a lot changed yet, Pearly. At least not until this war is over.”
I can see her look harden, then she looks forward over the bow. “It seems Kansas City approaches. Thank you for the walk.”
And with that she turns on her heel and heads back toward the aft, where Madam Allenthorpe’s stateroom is located. She stops and turns back. “I’ll sew you up a belt, and you’ll teach me to shoot?”
I nod, and wave, a little sadly as we were getting on fine until I brought up the war, and I suppose she believes I mean to keep the institution of slavery...and maybe I do, hell, I don't really know. It seems our past will always be a mountain between us, and maybe that's the way it has to be.
Then I take note of the fella the reverend has said was called Skunk. He's leaning on the rail just in front of the side wheel, his arms folded, glaring at Pearl as she passes. She keeps eyes forward, and he glances back at me, then leans back and spits a stream of tobacco juice overboard. We both stand and glare at each other until Pearl disappears into Madam Allenthorpe's stateroom, then he turns and leans on the rail and watches the country pass.
Chapter 11
I decide it’s time to make sure Ian is up, so I head below. He should have an easy shift, as the rumor is the Eagle will stay tied up to a Kansas City wharf through the night.
Now if the wire—a message from Marshal County—hasn’t alerted the coppers of Kansas City to the fact Ian and I are aboard the Eagle, on the morrow we’ll be heading out of reach of even the telegraph.
I shove the Colt into my belt, then awaken Ian and tell him I'll soon be going ashore to get us a change of clothes, he laughs and shrugs.
"Hell, Brad—"
"Nolan for a while longer."
"Hell, Nolan, I been doing with this here shirt and I'm damn proud of these trousers."
"You ain't—" then I remember the Madam's insinuation that I don't know the kings English, and revise, "You are not smelling like a goat yet, and you soon will be."
I have yet to warn him, so I do. "You are the low man on deck, so it's you who cleans out the boiler. You'll come out smelling like the south end of a north bound skunk."
"Into the boiler," his voice is up an octave.
"Yep. Ain't much fun, but not having the dollar and a half for the day is less fun, unless you've taken up not eating."
"You done paid for our eating. Speaking of that, I could eat an ox."
"There is that," I laugh. "Scraping the mud out of that boiler is not so bad, cleans out the pores."
"I ain't surprised."
I can see the lines being thrown ashore.
"I'm off to town. Anything you got to have besides trousers."
"A pretty young lass would be fine."
"You might have to wait til' you've got some of those big paychecks from the railroad." I wave over my shoulder and head for the ladder. Then I turn back. "Keep your eye out for some nosy city law. They got the wire here and they might be hunting Braden McTavish."
He waves back.
As I make my way to the gangplank, I see Pearl and Madam Allenthorpe heading that way. The madam waves me over.
"You're going ashore?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I will employ you for the rest of the day. Two dollars. You're armed I see. Do you know how to use that horse pistol?"
"Yes, ma'am. A year of gunsmoke behind me."
"You want the position?"
"Yes, ma'am. I've only got one chore ashore, and that's to find some ready made for a change for Ian and me."
"Then you're hired to watch over us, but we must hurry along as the stores will close in an hour or so."
Seems to me two dollars a day strolling the city streets with two beautiful women is somewhat better than one and a half for mucking out the bowel of a one hundred thirty degree boiler, so it may be hard to get the smile off my mug.
Kansas City must have a couple of thousand folks, mostly spread out along the river, but a few houses are atop a bluff that rises above a hundred feet or so. A number of fine establishments line the street nearest the river, wharves and warehouses on the river side, and general stores, saloons, barber shops, and offices of all kinds with their backs to the bluff.
The ladies head straight for a general store which brags on its goods with a large billboard painted on the side of its second story, which rises above Mack's Green Prairie Saloon—which is fine with me as I may be able to find a change of duds for Ian and me.
As we move down the boardwalk, the ladies in front, drays and wagons and a few carriages passing on the muddy street, I get a tingle down my back. Things seem very tense among the folks in Kansas City. The ladies are looked upon with both admiration and scorn, a white and black walking together and chatting as if they were sisters. Both are dressed to the nines, both carrying parasols matching well fitting gowns, both with fine button shoes with heels to add a couple of inches to their height. They pause and look in the window of a tinsmith, admiring his work, and I look across the street to a fine building that appears to have once been a stately hotel. The Union Hotel, or so says a sign above its third floor, however the sign above the front door now announces, Union Prison. And all the windows above the ground floor are boarded up. As I know the city to be the headquarters of Union General Thomas Ewing, commander of the District of the Border, I know this must house many boys from my side of the Mason Dixon. I quell the urge to return to the Eagle and fetch enough powder to blow a hole in the wall big enough to drive the Eagle through and free my fellow rebs, but it’s a fool's mission.
I stay several feet behind the ladies as they move on. And keep my attention off the prison. Madam Allenthorpe stops short and Pearl moves forward a couple of feet until the madam calls out to her. "Stay close, Pearl."
Ahead of them, striding our way, is Skunk and the two Swedes, laughing and enjoying the sights. They are ten feet from the ladies before they see them, and Skunk extends an arm, stopping them.
"Damn, if it ain't the lady who sings like a crow and her black ass donkey."
Anger floods my chest. Why wait? I go ahead and pull the Colt from my belt and let it hang loosely at my side, only then does Skunk glance over and see me behind the ladies.
The towheaded Swede, Lucas Eckland, I think his name was, gives Skunk a hard look. "That's no way to talk to a lady," he says, to his credit.
"Them ain't ladies," Skunk growls.
The Swedes both straighten, then glance at each other, before Lucas exclaims, "We'll be going on along to the saloon." He's looking more than a little disgusted. I'm glad to see the two Swedes brush on by and tip their hats to the ladies as they do.
I move up between the full skirts. "Mister, you'd best be apologizing to the ladies then go on about your business."
He glances down to see my Colt, palmed and hanging at my side, but his look only hardens, and his hand is on the sidearm at his side, but still holstered. "I been shot three times, friend, and killed all three of those fellas."
"How about that," I say, and give hi
m a smile I don't truly feel. "I guess those fellas that shot you were lousy marksmen. I, on the other hand, was raised up shooting squirrels out of the treetops with a sidearm," I lie, "and we had tall trees."
"Don't raise that," he says, his voice low and ominous, "as I can draw fast enough to shoot a lightning bolt out of the sky."
Again I smile, this time at Skunk's braggadocio. "Pretty hard to find a hole in a lightning bolt to prove you done it, however it'll be easy for the digger to find one middle of that wide ugly chest of yours."
He seems to weaken, then says, "Let me by, I gotta join my pards."
"Soon as you apologize," I say, my voice matching his low tone.
He tries to pass, pushing Pearl aside, as he mumbles, "I ain't gonna—"
He doesn't get it out before Pearl thrashes him hard upside the head with her parasol with a crack that rings up and down the street.
"You goddamned—," He spins and reaches for her.
And again, he doesn't get it out as I bat him upside the head with the Colt. His hat flies out into the mud, and he sags to his knees. She whacks him again on one side then the other, and I decide he should be on his face and backhand him with the Colt, just over the ear. There's a thump like I've hit a ripe watermelon. And my wish is granted as he pitches forward, without even putting his hands out. He's cold as a banker's heart.
"Are you alright, ladies?" I ask as a crowd is beginning to gather.
"Let's move along," Madam Allenthorpe says, and I can't help but note the smile on her face. As we head on down to the Mercantile, she turns to me. "Two dollars well spent, Mr. Byrne."
"The day is not over, Madam," I say, with some skepticism.
The ladies enter the mercantile and I go straight to a display that announces men's canvas clothing and am surprised at the selection as ready-mades are a fairly new thing here in the west. In no time I've selected a pair of canvas trousers to fit both Ian and me, two pairs of flap-back long johns, and two heavy flannel shirts that I hope will be fitting for Dakota winters. As usual the sleeves are long enough for a knuckle dragger—as all are made to fit anyone—so I buy four garters to hold them to the proper length.
