Threads West, an American Saga

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Rebecca shook her head. “Enough,” she whispered fiercely. Things are what they are, and I must do what I must do. There is no other way.

  Glancing quickly at the doorway to make sure no one was there, she dropped to one knee between the desk and the chair. Feeling underneath the bottom right cabinet, she found and pushed a hidden wooden lever and slid out a concealed drawer. Only she and her father knew of this hiding place.

  Reaching down, she pulled out her father’s will and a large piece of tattered parchment that that had been folded down to about one-third of a yard square. Inside the folds of the heavy paper was another parchment: “Land deed to Henry Thomas Marx of Land Grant by Ferdinand, King of Spain.” Attached to the deed was a document, in Spanish, very formal in appearance, with the impressive seal of the Spanish Crown in wax at the bottom.

  Feeling the rough texture of the paper against her fingertips, she recalled the words of their solicitor when they were alone after the reading of the will; “Milady Marx, I know the family is a bit short on cash. I held Mister Marx in high regard. Perhaps I can assist you and your mother by waiving my fees in return for…,” he had paused, gazing into space in pretended contemplation, “…for something. Perhaps the map and deed to the American lands? They are so far away and so desolate.”

  To this day, Rebecca wondered why she had responded so quickly as she did, “Why, thank you, Barrister, for your very kind offer but I feel bound by my father’s wishes.” She smiled to herself. I rejected that suggestion in even less time than I refused his dinner invitation.

  She had dismissed the solicitor’s urging to trade expenses for the deed. He was just being noble, she had thought but then again…her father’s last words ran through her memory as her fingertips traced the heavy, textured paper.

  Shaking her head, she crouched behind the desk, combing through the will until she came to page fourteen:

  “I direct that upon my death, my daughter, REBECCA ELIZABETH MARX, be given this map and associated deed and title to that certain one thousand hectares of land owned pursuant to the attached United States deed, and associated Land Grant of the Spanish crown, and situated approximately at latitude 38°46’ north, longitude 107°41’ west, east and south of the Uncompahgre River in the southwestern portion of the Kansas Territories of the United States of America, also known as the Colorado District. I further direct my daughter REBECCA ELIZABETH MARX to venture to such lands within three years of my death to explore, ascertain and make best use of the value of such land and its resources, above and below the earth’s surface, for the health, welfare and benefit of all descendants named in this will.”

  Reading the words again, such land and its resources, above and below the earth’s surfaces, she pursed her lips and looked up at the painting of the Trader.

  Staring at the figure that stood on the bow of the ship in colored oil, she whispered, “Father, I am sure this is a wild goose chase. Know this, I will abide by your wishes and directives because it is your will, I cherish you and we have little choice. I shall not remain in that unfit outback with Yankee rebels one minute longer than necessary, nor shall I venture one inch beyond St. Louis. I will do what I must and see what I can to convert this forsaken piece of earth into a few pounds for the family, and then I shall return.”

  CHAPTER 6

  DECEMBER 22, 1854

  JOHANNES

  Seven hundred seventy two miles southwest of the stately row of houses of London’s upper end neighborhoods, the villa perched atop a rocky bluff overlooking a restless blue-green sea. The coarse golden beach at the base of the stones soaked up the white foam of frothy swells crashing on the edge of the sand along the Danish coast. A cool salt breeze fluttered the villa’s bedroom curtains, the soft cream taffeta caressing the windowsill. Inside, a huge canopied Danish walnut bed and two fine Belgian walnut armoires, his and hers, nestled against either wall. An expensive Norwegian dresser served as an oak pedestal for a dainty white doily that centered a tall pewter candleholder. A solitary thin candle flickered in the air currents from the open window.

  Johannes Svenson’s tall, thin, naked body was draped over an equally lanky female form. The woman’s eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, the white creamy skin of her thighs quivering and her body trembling from their lovemaking of just minutes before.

  Moving his fingertips lightly, he traced the perfect curve of her hips, slowly continuing his hands’ appreciative wanderings down her inner thighs. “Ah, that was wonderful,” he whispered in her ear.

  Opening her eyes, she turned a beautiful porcelain face to him, large blue eyes staring back into his. A satiated grin spread from the corners of her mouth. Drawing his head down with a delicate hand, she kissed him passionately.

  “Oh, Johannes. I have never been touched like that. Eleven years of marriage and I realize that I have never been made love to before.”

  Cupping his hand around her breast, his thumbs lightly stroked her erect nipple. “I want to see more of you, my sweet Bente, much more.”

  They began to embrace, the woman wrapping her lithe legs around his hips. Downstairs, a door slammed. They froze.

  Pushing on Johannes’ chest, her voice frantic, she whispered, “Quick! Your clothes!”

  “Put your ring back on!” he hissed back, vaulting from the bed and searching frantically for his trousers among their combined garments scattered around the floor. “Is there another way out?”

  She was sitting up, the sheets fearfully clutched to her bosom, her mouth agape.

  Reaching out, he shook her shoulder, “Is there another way out?”

  “No!” she said in a breaking voice. There were tears in her eyes.

  Studying the bed, he realized it was too high to conceal him. There must be another place. This will not be the first time I have hidden and awaited a later chance to escape an awkward situation.

  He had his pants partially buttoned, only one arm through the sleeve in his open shirt, when the locked bedroom door shuddered. Bente stared at him, her face whiter than the crumpled sheets, mouthing words without sound. Again, the door shook. The wood in the doorframe splintered and the door crashed open. Two of the king’s guards stepped in, broadswords drawn, the Seal of the Danish Crown on their breastplates. Behind them, standing with clenched fists at his side was Bente’s husband, the First Minister of Denmark—a short, wiry man wearing a monocle attached by a thin gold chain to his lapel. His goatee was perfectly trimmed and jewels bedazzled his wrists and fingers.

  “What’s this?” he squealed, his hands gesturing wildly between the two of them.

  Johannes began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” demanded the cuckold. His monocle fell out of his eye and dangled around one knee.

  Johannes’s laugh deepened.

  “Answer me, you scoundrel!”

  The king’s guards looked at one another uneasily. Johannes thought a hint of a smile might be playing at the corners of their mouths. Catching his breath, “I can see, sir, why after eleven years of marriage, your wife has never been satisfied.”

  The minister’s face turned purple. “Take him away!” he sputtered. With a thin, vicious leer, he turned his attention to his wife, still in the bed. “I will deal with you later.”

  *****

  Johannes was grimy and tired. His clothes were tattered from slightly more than two weeks of solitary confinement in a filthy cell deep in the bowels of the royal castle. Creaking heavily, the door of the dark, tiny cubicle opened. Grabbing him roughly, four guards dragged him in chains from the dungeon up five levels of the castle to the courtroom of the Royal Magistrate. The magistrate was a rotund man with puffy cheeks not hidden at all by his careful attempts to arrange the locks of his silver-powdered wig. His oversized black robe was more a blanket than a piece of clothing. His chest barely cleared the elevated bench at which he sat. Glancing up from papers in front of him, Johannes noticed a flit of surprise sweep across his fea
tures; his eyes flickering in quickly masked recognition. Johannes stared directly back at him.

  Johannes knew exactly what was on the magistrate’s mind. The two of them had seen and talked with one another during a number of clandestine evenings in the lascivious brothels of East Copenhagen. The magistrate was married.

  Clearing his throat, the judge gazed with feigned intensity at his documents.

  “Johannes Svenson?”

  “Yes,” responded Johannes.

  “Yes, your honor,” came the correction from the bench.

  “Excuse me. Yes, your honor,” said Johannes.

  “You were caught red-handed consorting with the wife of the First Minister, Bente Oslo. Is this true?”

  Johannes answered simply, “Yes, your honor.”

  The magistrate looked down again at his papers. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “She is a very beautiful woman,” said Johannes.

  The magistrate looked at him sharply, amusement apparent in the twitch of his mouth. “She is that. You do know that sleeping with another man’s wife is a crime?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “You know also that this crime is punishable in a number of ways. We can decide to make certain physical changes to your person to ensure that you never make such an error again.”

  Johannes suddenly felt clammy. His knees trembled and he realized he was swaying.

  “The court could sentence you to ten years hard labor,” said the magistrate.

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “Or the court could do both.”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “There is one other measure available to the court. I see here you have a distinguished record as an officer in the king’s heavy cavalry.”

  Johannes said nothing.

  “Twice awarded the Cross of Merit, correct?”

  “Yes, your honor,” answered Johannes.

  Leaning back into the high purple velour of his chair, the judge clasped his hands across his protruding belly, regarding Johannes studiously.

  A minute went by, then two. Suddenly his portly frame straightened. Picking up a quill, he dipped it in ink and began writing furiously, from time to time pausing and glancing at Johannes. Damn, he is writing out his order.

  Placing the quill down, the judge returned his gaze to Johannes. “In view of your past service to Denmark and the heroism you have shown in defense of the kingdom, I will not order you incarcerated or castrated. You are, however, hereby exiled. You are never to set foot on Danish soil again or you will be subject to arrest and both of the alternative punishments. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “As one other condition of this sentencing, you will converse with no one concerning this case or any related matter, ever. You will talk to no one about anything until you are out of the country, and you will have no contact with any public official, any relative of any official, the royal family or ministry of the kingdom at any time in the future. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  Nodding to one of the six ax-wielding guards who stood at attention on either side of the great doors in the courtroom, the judge barked his orders, “Captain of the guard, take the prisoner to the first available sea transportation to a non-Danish destination. He is not to leave your sight. He is not to speak to anyone. You are not to return until the ship has disappeared on the horizon. Is that clear?”

  The captain of the guard clicked his heels and stood at attention. The magistrate looked solemnly at Johannes. His features were stern but Johannes saw one eye dip in a slight wink.

  “That is all, Captain Svenson.”

  CHAPTER 7

  JANUARY 8, 1855

  THE WINDS OF FATE

  The sun was slipping into the west as the small, enclosed prison wagon rumbled through the streets of the city. Johannes had been denied his request for a bath and clean clothes by the captain of the guard. Swaying with the rock of the wooden wagon, each hand clenched around a bar of one of the tiny apertures, he peered out at the throngs on the sidewalk. The day was over and people hurried home or to taverns, shops and bakeries, glancing at him curiously. It is highly unlikely that I will ever see these streets or this country again.

  It’s been good to me, overall, he mused, absorbing the jolt as the wagon wheels bumped over potholes in the road. But perhaps it is time to move on. America. The New World. A land with no kings or royalty. He would need money for passage. “I am certainly glad they didn’t check the heels of my boots,” Johannes snorted to the unhearing people scurrying along the streets. “Idiots.”

  Staring absently at the passing storefronts, Johannes thought back over his years in Denmark. His mother had died when he was five, a victim of the great cholera outbreak of the 1830s. She had been buried with thousands of others in a mass entombment of unknown location. He felt a pang as he realized he would never again visit his father’s grave, which he had done regularly since his death in one of the skirmishes of the 1848 Revolution, the uprising that had stripped the monarchy and King Frederick VII of much of their absolute powers—though corruption and nepotism had continued unabated. His father also had been a decorated cavalry officer. “Even in death,” Johannes whispered into the air between the iron bars, “you remain my best friend. Farewell, Father. Farvel.”

  He breathed a melancholy sigh. A hell of a time to be stuck in a dungeon—over Christmas! But I am leaving nothing behind. Twenty-six years old, and I have no love, little money, no family and no property. Then he half grinned out through the bars, speaking to the crowds bustling in the street, “But I am sure there will be a broken heart or two.” He thought of Bente and hoped she had been spared too severe a punishment.

  His years in the military had taught him to adapt, mold to change and travel at a moment’s notice. Now he drew on that training and experience. By the time they pulled into the docks, the sound of his whistle echoed in his wooden confines. He looked forward to the unfettered adventure of the next chapter of his journey. The rest of the pages of his book of life were blank.

  The captain of the guard, a sergeant, unlocked the back of the wagon. Johannes had to scrunch down to fit his tall frame through the opening. He jumped down to the cobblestones, still hunched over, the chain connecting the manacles at his ankles and wrists making a metal chink. The soldier had his cap and ball pistol out. Straightening up, Johannes started to laugh, the laughter intensifying at the sight of the guard’s puzzled face.

  “Put that pistol down, sergeant,” said Johannes. “I am not armed, I’m half dressed in filthy rags, my hands and feet are chained together and you’re about to put me on a boat. And we’ve both been soldiers in the same army.”

  The sergeant lowered the weapon.

  “Would you mind taking these damn irons off, please? I do have to get along with the people on whatever boat you are going to stick me on.”

  The guard looked at him with distrust.

  “You have my word I won’t run. I will get on the ship and I won’t come back. I swear as a former officer of the king’s cavalry.”

  The guard hesitated, then gruffly muttered, “All right, come along then.” Shoving the pistol into the wide leather belt around his tunic, he unlocked the manacles, throwing them in the back of the wagon. The guard kept his hand on the hilt of his sword. The two men walked side by side down the dock. There were four or five fishing trawlers, a sailing ship and a small tugboat.

  At each boat, the guard stopped if any crew was visible, calling out, “Ahoy there! When are you sailing and where to?” Not one of the vessels had plans to put out to sea. Several ships had no crew. They finally reached the tugboat.

  “Hey, there! When are you sailing and where to?” called the guard.

  An older sandy-haired man, his leather face wrinkled and cracked from too many years in the sun and wind, emerged from the pilothouse. Leaning on the rail, he looked down at them.

  “What you got ther
e, general?”

  “I have a man that needs passage. King’s orders! I have a requisition slip here.”

  The older man leaned further over the rail, his enjoyment of the moment obvious. “You don’t say, now. I assume this isn’t the king next to you. And what about this requisition slip? I work on cash. I won’t take credit, even from God.”

  Johannes looked at his feet, trying not to laugh but he knew the shaking of his shoulders gave him away.

  “And what are you laughing at, Mister Beanpole? Are you some dangerous subversive or a throat-slitting murderer? Maybe I’ll just take you out, tie the anchor to you, dump you at sea and then come back and get my money.”

  The guard stood stiffly through the exchange. He did not appear amused.

  “I say again, king’s orders! Where are you headed?”

  Swiveling his head, the seadog spat again, “Bremen, if you must know.” His gaze returned to Johannes without a shift in his body. “You know anything about ships or are you worthless?”

  Johannes flashed a broad smile. “I am not a captain but I can do most things a good crewman can.”

  “Come aboard, then. Maybe if it works out, you’ll want to stay on past Bremen. I’ve been looking for a good deckhand for a year. I’ve begun to think people don’t like me.” He clutched his chest feigning hurt.

  “And you there, general, give me that piece of paper and write your name on it. If I don’t get paid I’m going to come find you, take that sword and stick it up your ass.” The captain of the guard’s face tightened. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out a small rolled parchment and thrust it up to the grinning old man while Johannes was scrambling onto the deck of the tug.