“Who’s that?”
Jones looked surprised. “Why, Harriver Mason. You haven’t heard of him? He’s the man who ran Silver Island. Sent there by the President himself.—
Howie felt as if a hand had reached in and clutched his insides. “I—been fightin’ in the war,” he said, forcing out the words. “We don’t hear a whole lot.”
“Oh, well, certainly not. Jones shook his head. “Barely escaped with his life when the Rebels attacked. All those fine young boys and girls. What an awful thing. I met the man at some gathering. He’s quite well thought of in California.”
“And he’s out there now?” Howie asked.
“He was. Five, six months ago. Be a good idea if he stayed there, too, I’d suppose.”
Howie didn’t look at Ritcher Jones. He didn’t look at anything at all. He felt it start again, felt the rage begin to burn him inside; he knew, if he let it, it would rise up and take him, consume him then and there.
Carolee … Carolee!
Howie took a deep breath and let the anger subside. It didn’t go away. He didn’t want that. It smoldered there, quietly and under control.
“Cory, you all right?”
Howie knew Jones had been talking, but didn’t have the slightest idea what he’d said.
“I’m fine,” Howie said. “I’m fine as I can be.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The riding was easy, and Howie and Ritcher Jones saw no one at all along the way. A summer storm followed their path down the coast, always staying just out to sea. The slate-blue clouds were swollen with rain, but not a drop reached the dry and thirsty land.
On the fifth day, late in the afternoon, small settlements began to appear along the Gulf, drab, makeshift towns of weathered wood and canvas haphazardly scattered along the beach. Men, women and children ventured out to gaze in wonder at the rare sight of horses. Jones picked up the pace, saying how it wasn’t right to tempt these poor souls to sin, especially with the night coming on.
Several miles farther, the preacher reined in and pointed at the fiat, brassy expanse of water ahead.
“That’s Alabama Port” he told Howie, “there on the other side. Sodom and Gomorrah all rolled into one is what it is. You want to keep an eye on your immortal soul, boy. These folks’ll skin it off your back ’fore you can blink.”
“Sin costs money as I recall,” Howie said. “I reckon I’ll be pretty safe.”
Jones gave him a sober look. “I wouldn’t jest about sin if I was you. That’s just what Satan likes to see—a man grinning in the face of damnation is a man about to fall.”
“Yes, sir, I reckon you’re right about that,” Howie said, certain this was the answer Ritcher Jones would like to hear.
The sun was low and directly in Howie’s eye, turning the water blood red. There was land over there, six or seven miles away; too far to see a town, and way too far to spot sin. Still, if Ritcher Jones said it was there, Howie didn’t doubt that it was so. The preacher had a nose for such things, and could sniff damnation a week away.
A ferry made of logs took Howie and Jones across. The horses didn’t like the idea and kicked up a fuss. A man and his wife and two children were aboard. The children were young and hadn’t see a horse before, and screamed all the way. The parents gave Jones hateful looks until the preacher gave each of the youngsters a copper coin. The children would never get to spend it, but Howie figured Jones knew that, too.
Howie tried to hold the horses still as he watched the silty water move by. The man who ran the ferry said the water stayed brown fifty miles out to sea, but Howie didn’t much believe that. The bay was peppered with muddy islands; to the north, nearly out of sight, the river twisted through flat delta land. Great columns of man-made stone showed Howie where a bridge had spanned the river in the century before, or maybe some time before that. The columns were stained with rust, so the bridge that had been there was iron. He tried to imagine the enormous amount of metal that would take, and how the bridge must have looked when it was new.
The ferry had scarcely bumped against the shore before a crowd began to gather around the horses. Word had gone ahead somehow, or someone had spotted them coming across. Men shouted out numbers, stabbing their fingers in the air. Men in linen coats and fine boots, stout men in garments stained with grease, gaunt, hollow-eyed men who carried the sour smell of sweat.
Howie felt a quick sense of panic, smothered by the sudden crush of bodies all around him. For a moment, he was back in the choking pall of battle, men dying and horses screaming everywhere. He shook off the fear and struggled to hold the mounts.
The men parted abruptly as a wedge of Loyalist troopers shoved their way up to the front. An angry murmur swept through the crowd at the soldiers’ appearance.
“Come on, give the rest of us a chance,” a man shouted.
“Hell, an honest man can’t do no business without the army buttin’ in!”
“Gentlemen, please!” An officer with bright captain’s tabs held up his hands. He was a large, dark-bearded man with a barrel-thick chest and scarcely any neck at all.
“Now you know well as I do the army’s got to have mounts,” the captain said. “I can’t allow no open sale; that’s the law, and I didn’t make it.” He grinned and shook his head, as if to say that he was on their side, and didn’t want to do this at all. “Now you can believe this or not, but I didn’t start this goddam war we got, either.”
The men met his words with a groan, but there was more bitter laughter now than anger in the crowd. Howie saw how the officer had disarmed them, as surely as if he’d had them drop their weapons in a sack. He had done it with his manner, and not with his size, shown them all that he was a victim too, helpless to change the way things had come to be.
Some of the men wandered off; a few cursed the army and laughed at themselves. They had known all along that no one would get to buy a horse. Others stayed around, simply for the chance to admire the fine mounts, and compare them to horses they’d seen before.
The captain stepped up and grasped the preacher’s hand. “Well now, Mr. Jones, for a man left here on foot, I’d say you done right well.”
“The Lord provides,” Jones said. “He that asks, so shall he receive.—
The captain threw back his head and laughed, a harsh, booming sound that came from deep within his chest. “If that ain’t the truth. Yes sir, you sure been provided, all right.” His smile faded slightly and he squinted at the mounts, rolling his tongue thoughtfully in his cheek.
“We’re payin’ eighteen silver,” he said. “To be honest, that’s for anything that can stand. What I’d like to do is give you twenty-four each for these here. They’re extra fine, I don’t have to tell you that. I figure that’s better’n fair. You’re welcome to check the going rate.”
“Oh, now I don’t have a need to do that,” Jones said. “No need at all.”
“Well then. The deal’s done. The captain took off his hat and wiped sweat from his brow with a blue bandanna. “I’ll have the funds drawn up and brought over to you personal. You staying at the Lansdale, I reckon.”
The officer spoke to Jones, but he was looking right at Howie. All the time he’d been talking his eyes had flicked back and forth, taking Howie in, a quick smile and a nod between words, as if such attention might hold Howie there. The preacher caught the captain’s interest and laid a hand on Howie’s arm.
“Cory, like you to meet Captain Tom Ricks,” Jones said. “Cory and me have been traveling together for a while.”
“Is that a fact? Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Cory.” He gripped Howie’s hand, and held it while he studied Howie’s eye. “I can tell a soldier when I see one, son. And a soldier’s wound, as well. Where’d you lose that eye?”
“Caught a piece of iron from a Rebel cannon,” Howie lied.
“And where was that?”
“Colorado.”
The captain shook his head. “Lord, I hear that was some bad.”
“I’d say it was.”
“What outfit you with?”
“Illinois Volunteers,” Howie said. He was stacking one lie on another, and that was a dangerous thing to do. Still, he had spotted Captain Ricks’s Missouri patch, and he was sure that bunch hadn’t ever been close to the mountains.
The captain seemed to lose interest at once. He dropped Howie’s hand and turned back to Jones. “You have some time to spare, why I’d like to drop by and have a drink.” He winked broadly at the preacher. “I hear the hotel got some real fine wines last week.”
“That’d be a pleasure,” Jones said, and shook the officer’s hand again.
Captain Ricks walked off without another glance at Howie. Howie wondered if that was good or bad. He watched the troopers who’d come with Ricks take the horses down the street. Jones waved at a young boy standing about and hired him to take their packs.
“We’ll find some rooms and get cleaned up,” Jones said. “Ah, a hot bath.” He rubbed his hands in delight. “Cleanliness is a habit that I sorely miss upon the trail, but God’s work doesn’t always take you where a tub of hot water’s close by. No sir, it surely does not.”
Howie stopped and shook his head. “Listen, I got a little money, but I don’t reckon I can spend it on no hotel. I’ll find me another place.”
“No, no, no.” Jones held up a hand. “I simply won’t hear of that. The rooms are paid for, Cory, you might as well use ’em. The Lansdale holds a place for me all the time.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Howie said. “It ain’t that. I just don’t want nobody havin’ to pay my way.
“The hotel’s got a fine cook to boot. Well, reasonably fine, I have to say. The man knows little about the proper way to season good food.”
“I appreciate your kindness,” Howie said. “But I guess I better go my own way.”
“A man can go his own way in a town like this,” Jones said, “and he might be fine, that’s true, On the other hand—on the other hand, now—a man might soon find himself among ungodly folk. That’s a fact. It’s an easy thing to do.”
Howie wasn’t listening too close. He was thinking about Ricks. All the questions he’d asked, and the way he kept looking, trying to see right through his head. A wagon went by, loaded down with crates, six men straining at the ropes. Howie and the preacher jumped aside.
“You know that army feller?” Howie asked. “Seemed as if he knows you.”
“Met him once or twice. It’s not that big a town.”
“He give you a fair price for them mounts?”
The preacher’s face split in a broad grin. “You’ve a keen eye, Cory. Fair, that’s what you want to know? Well, fair is a word you have to study on some. The law says the army’s got first pick of mounts. So fair you might say is what the army wants to pay. You can’t keep a horse yourself, not if they want to buy it, so the answer would have to be—yes, I got a fair price for sure.”
“How much you figure they’re really worth?”
“Exactly two and a half times what I got,” Jones said. Howie had to laugh. “I don’t guess the army’s changed a lot. Fair’s just the way it used to be.”
The farther they walked from the bridge, the more the town seemed to grow. The wide, dusty streets were bordered on every side by clapboard buildings with high false fronts that made them look much bigger than they were. There were stores of all kinds—clothiers, butcher shops, hardware stores, and even a store that sold nothing but pastries and sweets. There was a place that sold vegetables and fruits indoors, instead of out in market stalls, and Howie had never seen one before. Walking on south, he saw signs with words he didn’t recognize Ritcher Jones told him these were merchants who dealt with ships—sailmakers, chandlers, and the like. Long wooden sheds lined the street, buildings that held cargo coming in and going out: And past one of these streets Howie caught a glimpse of tall masts and furled sails, a crisscross pattern sketched against the darkening sky.
“Glory be,” Howie said beneath his breath, “if that isn’t something!”
“You ever seen a ship before?” Jones said.
“No, sir. Heard about ’em, though.”
“We’ll walk down in the morning for a look.”
“Is one of them the ship you’ll take to California?”
“I expect so. That’s where most every ship’s going these days.”
Howie watched the sight a long moment. “I expect I’d like to see one close. They let you do that?”
“We’ll sure work something out.” Jones said. He smiled at Howie. “Don’t blame you at all. A ship’s a mighty exciting thing to see.”
The streets were lit with lanterns, more than Howie had ever seen at one time. There were buildings made of brick and stone, some of them four and five stories high. The structures themselves were fairly new, he could see, but the bricks and stones were worn, and had clearly been used in the past.
“A city was here before,” Jones explained. “Name of Mobile, I believe. Built Alabama Port right on it.”
Howie was appalled. “On top of an old city? —
“They’re doing that a lot now. Cory. You just haven’t seen ’em. In California, they’ve brought a great many of the old places back. Not anything like they were before, of course.”
“It don’t seem right to me,” Howie said.
The Lansdale Hotel was a four-story building of manmade stone; each great block was patterned in intricate squares. No one could have carved them that smooth, Howie knew, but he couldn’t tell how it was done. The place inside where you stopped to get a room had a couch and two chairs where people could sit and talk if they liked. Howie tried to act as if he saw hotels every day, but it was hard not to stare. A large room nearby was brightly lit, and he could see men and women dressed up, sitting around tables with white cloths. Shiny plates and glasses caught the light. Everyone seemed to be laughing and talking, and Howie could smell the tantalizing aroma of good food. He thought about the dried-up farms on his way to Tallahassee, the hungry faces he’d seen. Eating hard corn and glad to get it, drinking from muddy creeks. Walking east, he had crossed the rivers north of here that emptied into Alabama Port. That wasn’t likely thirty miles away, but it seemed like a whole different world.
Howie protested again and said he didn’t want to take Jones’s offer, but this time his heart wasn’t in it. The truth was, he knew he wanted to stay; the thought of a real bath and hot food was too good to pass up. And anyway, he reasoned, he had turned the preacher down several times, and Jones had kept on asking. When a person did that, it meant he wasn’t just being polite.
Jones flipped a coin to the boy who had carried their packs. Another boy who worked for the hotel took their belongings upstairs. The rooms were four flights up, and Jones breathed hard all the way and complained about the walk.
Howie was surprised when Jones told him he had a room all to himself.
“Why, a man needs his privacy,” the preacher said. “It’s a God-given right. You just make yourself at home.
Howie found that wasn’t hard to do. The room had a bed with real sheets. A chair and a table with a pitcher of water and a bowl. A chest where you could put your things away, though Howie didn’t have enough belongings to concern himself with that.
As he was peering out the window at the brightly lit streets, a boy knocked and rolled in a great white tub on wheels. Another boy carried pails of steaming hot water, and kept going back out for more. There was soap and clean towels—enough towels, Howie figured, to dry off a couple of hundred times.
As he sank down into the tub, he tried to recall when he’d had a real honest-to-God hot bath before. He tried, but he couldn’t remember when that might have been. And that seemed a sorrowful thing indeed.
The dining room was only half as full as it had been an hour before, when Howie peeked in from the lobby, That was some relief, but not a lot, Even in a fairly clean shirt and decent pants from his pack; he felt uncomfortable and out of place. Ritcher J
ones seemed to know everyone in town, and they all dropped by the table to say hello. Men wearing white shirts and jackets, trousers pressed with a crease in the front. Officers in fine uniforms with polished sabers at their sides, men with their hair slicked back who smelled like some kind of flower.
Howie had never seen so many blue officer tabs and silver braids in his life. Not a one wore the small heart cut from purple cloth to show he’d been wounded in the war. And not a one had a badge to show he’d fought in some important campaign. More than that, they were all too fat—you didn’t get that way in a war.
A waiter handed Howie a card that listed all kinds of food. Howie asked for baked fish, and Ritcher Jones raised a brow at that.
“They’ve got some fine steak here,” he told Howie. “You ought to try one of those.”
“I ain’t much on meat,” Howie said.
“Not a bad idea,” Jones said. “The price has sure gone out of sight.”
There was wine, which Howie didn’t like, and a soup of some kind that tasted good. When the main course arrived, he tried to ignore the preacher’s steak. The dark crust sizzled and the plate ran bright red with juice. The smell made his stomach turn over; for a moment he was sure he’d be sick. He concentrated on the fish, forced himself to eat. He didn’t want anything now, but hunger overcame the other sickness inside.
Jones was too busy with his meal to notice Howie’s discomfort. When the meat was all gone, he mopped up the juice with his bread, then asked for peach pie for them both. Howie ate a little, and the preacher finished off what he left.
“Well now,” Jones said, leaning back with a sigh, “to my way of thinking, this is somewhat better than camping out beneath a tree. Praise God for the comforts of civilization—though of course there is much to be said for the glories of the outdoor natural sort of life.”
“It don’t seem right,” Howie said. “Not to me it don’t.”
Neal Barrett Jr. Page 6
