by Diane Guest
Sylvanus and John had much the same thought as they stood in the front parlor of John's house, watching the evening sky. All hint of pink had been burned out, leaving only an angry, garish red-orange.
"Like seeing something out of Dante's Inferno, isn't it?" Sylvanus said.
"Exactly what I was thinking," John said.
Sylvanus turned from the window and poured himself another brandy. "It was kind of you to have me for dinner, John. As usual, Kate outdid herself."
"I didn't invite you out of kindness, Sylvanus. I want to talk to you about something." He lit his pipe.
"What?"
"Susannah Snell."
For the moment, Sylvanus was hard pressed to think of a subject he was less inclined to discuss.
John continued. "She's got an unhealthy situation on her hands and I was hoping maybe you could help."
Sylvanus's first impulse was to tell John he didn't give a damn about Susannah Snell's problems. When he spoke his voice was cold. "How could I possibly help Susannah Snell?"
John frowned. For a moment he considered the possibility that perhaps it would be no service to Susannah to involve Sylvanus Morgan in her life, but, looking over at his friend, he decided that once Sylvanus understood the seriousness of her position, he would not refuse to help. Sylvanus was many things, but he was not unkind. "I think she has a lunatic on her hands. Edwin Snell is behaving in a most peculiar fashion. Susannah wants to get her children out of the house, send them back to New England."
Sylvanus nodded. He could fully understand her desire to protect her children. Madness was hard enough for an adult to cope with, let alone a child. "You want me to have one of the men take them down to Green Bay?"
"That was my first thought," John admitted. "But I don't think that's possible any longer."
"Why not?" Sylvanus took a sip of brandy; it burned its way down his throat.
"I suspect that by now the road to Green Bay is no more."
Sylvanus was startled. "Who says?"
"The people who arrived on the stage this afternoon made it by the skin of their teeth. According to Ben Eames—and he's one of the best drivers between here and Chicago—things weren't too bad when they left Green Bay, but then a small breeze came up and all hell broke loose. He said the trees on both sides of the road just exploded, coming down across the road, roots and all. He says he won't try to go back until this is over."
"I wonder what that means?" Sylvanus stood. "You don't mind if I pour myself another brandy?"
"No. While you're at it, get one for me, will you?" He handed Sylvanus his snifter.
"If you don't want me to take the Snell children to Green Bay, what Jo you want?" He splashed the amber liquid into the glasses.
"I want you to take them up to Morgan House."
"What?" Sylvanus was stunned.
John repeated himself.
"That's impossible, John. You know my situation. Caroline is not known for her works of charity. Not to mention the fact that, if she could, she would probably exterminate once and for all the entire species known to us as children. I wouldn't put it past her to smother the little ones while they slept." He wondered why that wasn't funny. It had been meant to be, but somehow it wasn't.
"I know that Caroline has never had much affection for people in general, not just the little ones," John said. "But I don't think there's any compassion between Caroline Morgan and Edwin Snell."
"You're right, John. Caroline is by far the more dangerous."
"Be serious, Sylvanus."
Again, Sylvanus had spoken the words in an attempt to inject some humor into what he found to be a most depressing subject, only to feel a nagging sense of truth. It unnerved him.
John continued. "You're the only one who can offer them a place far enough from town and from their father for Susannah to feel that they're safe. And you're the only one I know who has the room and the help to handle three extra guests. And you're the only one to whom I feel close enough to ask such a favor." He drew on his pipe, but it was out. "If you take the children, Susannah can say that you're doing her a kindness, allowing her to devote her full attention to Edwin." John smiled. "And if that's not enough for you—after all, Sylvanus, it was your saw that done the deed, as it were."
"Damn pious fool," Sylvanus said, thinking about Edwin Snell. He fell silent, trying to explain to himself why on the one hand he wanted nothing whatever to do with the lady, and on the other, why he had the most extraordinary desire to help her. It was giving him a headache just thinking about it.
"Does she know you've asked me this, John?"
"Good God, no," John said. "She doesn't know, and she's going to have a fit when I tell her. But I think I can persuade her that it's for the best, at least until the road south is reopened."
Sylvanus was thoughtful. "You really think a lot of her, don't you, John?"
"I've told you before. She's something special to me. If you'd known her as long as I have, you couldn't help but care about her. Kate and I both love her. She's a rarity in this world, Sylvanus."
His friend slumped down in the chair. "I guess I'll have to take your word for it, John." Jesus, I'm tired, he thought. My bones ache. "I'm going home before I fall asleep right here."
"You're welcome to spend the night."
"I think not." He rose and put his glass on the table. "Besides," he said, "my devoted wife must be worried sick about me by this time."
John put his hand on Sylvanus's shoulder. "It isn't any better, I take it?"
"Better? How could a situation like mine ever get any better? I just hope that it doesn't get worse."
They went together to the door and walked out onto the porch. "What do you think?" John asked. "About the Snells, I mean."
"Give me a night to think about it, John. I'll drop by tomorrow morning and give you an answer." He mounted his horse and waved. "Good night."
"Good night, good friend."
Sylvanus clicked softly to Uncle Arch, but instead of heading the horse toward Morgan House he turned the other way, toward the whorehouse at the far end of the road. He felt the need to have a woman, but only someone who would ask for nothing more from him than a handful of greenbacks, only with someone who would freely admit to being a whore.
OCTOBER 1, 1871
"No, John. Absolutely not. I won't consider it." Edwin has gone mad, she thought, and everyone else has gone mad along with him. Maybe I have, too.
They were sitting at her kitchen table having a cup of tea before John went in to see Edwin.
"Susannah, you have three choices," John said. "One, you can send the children off to Green Bay, if you can find someone who's willing to take them despite the obvious hazards. Two, you can send them up to Morgan House until we have a clearer picture of Edwin's mental condition, or, three, you can keep them here with you and face the possible consequences if, as we both fear, Edwin has lost all reason. The decision is clearly yours."
The door banged and Aaron flew into the kitchen with a cloud of dust. "Mother, may we go fishing? Ethan and me? Matt says he knows the best spot in the world. Secret. And it hasn't even dried up yet."
Susannah looked at her youngest child. He was growing up so fast. Oh Aaron, what will I do when all of you are gone? she thought. "But Aaron," she said, "it's the Sabbath."
His face fell. "Yes, ma'am. I forgot."
She tried to frown, but the best she could manage was a smothered grin. She put her arm around him. "You go ahead. Just make sure you boys hide your poles so nobody knows what you're about."
Aaron threw his arms around her and gave her a slushy kiss. "Thank you, Momma. I love you." The little boy in him always called her "Momma," It was only when he was being grown-up that he called her Mother.
"And Aaron, stay out of the woods," she said, but he was gone, leaving Susannah to think about how very senseless her life would have been without her children.
"Now you've done it," John said.
"What?"
&nb
sp; "Letting them go fishing on Sunday. You really are trying to bring the wrath of God down on us, aren't you?"
Susannah laughed. "Oh, John, do you really think that God doesn't want children to go fishing on Sunday? If you were God, would you be so grim?" She poured herself another cup of tea. "Poor Edwin. He really did marry a heathen, didn't he?"
"I guess it depends upon who's making the judgment, doesn't it it? Speaking of Edwin, what about Morgan House?"
Susannah frowned. She knew that John was right when he said that she only had three choices. There was no question about the danger of sending them to Green Bay. But worse than that was what she felt here in this house. Perhaps she was concerned for no good reason. But she wasn't sure, and that was what was making her so nervous.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad at Morgan House. At least they could still come down to school and she could see them, make sure they were all right. She put her head in her hands and spoke her thoughts out loud. "How could I ask Sylvanus Morgan to take my children in as house guests? He's a stranger to us."
"I've already asked Sylvanus, Susannah. He told me not an hour ago that he would be delighted to help you in any way he could."
"John, how could you?" She felt her cheeks burning.
"Susannah, Sylvanus is my closest friend. He's willing to do this because I've asked him. If I asked you to do a favor for me, would you do it even if you weren't crazy about the situation?"
She nodded. "You know I would."
"Well, I don't know how crazy Sylvanus is about this. And his wife may make things uncomfortable for him. But he's willing to give it a go, and so should you."
Susannah took a breath. "If Sylvanus Morgan had any sense," she said, "he'd tell you to go straight to hell for asking such a favor. But since he didn't, I won't refuse his help. I think I have no choice."
"Then it's settled. The children go to Morgan House." He stood up.
"John."
"What?"
"I'm grateful. To you… and to Sylvanus Morgan."
"You're a good girl and I love you." He kissed the top of her head. "I guess I'd better go in now and see how Edwin is doing."
The half-breed wiped a greasy hand on his breeches and threw the partially eaten rabbit bones aside. He wasn't very hungry.
It had been a bad day so far. Game was scarce even along the edges of the swamp. The thought formed in his mind that this dryness was bad business, that maybe it was time to move on. He would give it another week. No more. If the rain didn't come, he would move on.
He kicked at the smoldering cook-fire with half-interest and picked up the small pile of stinking animal pelts he had collected. Without looking back, he broke into an easy, loping run that carried him away from the bloody, fly-covered carcasses of the animals he had killed, away from the harmless little fire he had started to cook his meal.
By the time the half-breed was one mile to the north, his fire had multiplied and divided more than a dozen times, existing with only two intentions—one, to keep alive; the other, to spread.
"Where did that little bastard get to?" A loud belch rumbled up from his fat innards and Jake Shepherd downed the rest of his beer. "Goddamned brat. Ain't seen him in days."
His head hurt and he put it down on the table. He couldn't remember much about the night before, except that he had spent most of his week's wage on booze, and for the privilege of doing whatever he pleased to the big-breasted whore he had picked up in the saloon. He remembered smugly that he had taught her a few tricks.
Moving his head only slightly, he reached over and pulled a straw out of the broom that leaned against the wall of the shack. He stuck it in his mouth and tried to dislodge a piece of food that was wedged in between two of his broken yellow teeth.
At a distance, Jake was ugly enough, but at close range he was sickening. The pocklike scabs that covered one cheek still looked raw and infected, the result of a calked boot stomping on his face in a fight a few weeks back—lumberjack smallpox, they called it.
"Get me another beer, old lady," he snarled, the pain in his head making him even more surly than he was normally.
Bertha did as she was told quickly and went back to her chair by the window.
"I asked you a question, old lady. You deaf? Where is that little dung-faced brat that eats us out of house and home?"
"Ain't seen him since Friday." Her voice was dead.
"What the hell do you mean by that, you fat old bitch? I don't know why I keep you around here, neither. What the hell good are ya'? Stinking old lady." His voice drifted off.
Bertha sat like a stone. The fear inside her pounded against her throat, wanting to be free, to pour out of her mouth in a shriek. This was bad. Jake was mean when he was in a mood like this. Like a coiled snake. The wrong word, the wrong movement, anything at all could trigger unmentionable things. I hope the boy don't come home, she thought.
Jake finished the beer and lumbered over to where she sat. He stood over her, his tiny pig eyes cruel, menacing. Grabbing her cheeks in a viselike grip, he turned her head toward him and spit full in her face. "Well, old lady, I'm waiting for a answer. Where is the little puke-face?" He increased the pressure on her face so that she could barely get her mouth open to speak.
"I heard he was over at Snell's," she croaked.
With his free hand, he reached down and grabbed one broad, flat breast and twisted it so hard that she almost screamed. But she didn't. Experience had taught her that screaming only seemed to goad him on to even worse acts of brutality.
"At Snell's, eh?" He let go. "What's he doing there?"
She shrugged. Her face was a gray blank except for the marks of his fingers, which pulsed reddish-purple on her cheeks.
"That Snell bitch ain't givin' him no more charity, is she? Jake Shepherd don't take kindly to no charity, not for himself, not for no kin. I told you that once already, old lady, when she give him them clothes."
Bertha said nothing. She was like an animal struck dumb with terror, in agony that he might come at her again.
He crossed to the door. "I think I'll just take me over to Reverend Snell's and fetch him home." He smirked menacingly, and his eyes were mean. "That young'un needs a lesson. He's gettin' too big for his britches."
After he had gone, Bertha sat rocking for a long time, resigned, knowing that as sure as the sun came up and went down there was no escape for her, and none for her son.
Hallelujah—that was Bobber Peabody's dog—made the mistake of coming too close to Jake Shepherd as he shuffled down the road toward the Snell house. As a matter of fact, had there been a witness it might have appeared that Jake went out of his way to give the dog a vicious kick in the hindquarters, a kick that knocked the animal flat in the road. Jake paused as if he meant to go after the stricken dog again, but then changed his mind and continued on his way to the Snell house.
He stood on the porch, waiting for someone to answer his knock. Susannah opened the door. "Yes?" she said, surprise registering clearly on her face.
"I come for my son."
Susannah was speechless, but only for an instant. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Shepherd, I'll see if he's here." She closed the door and stood leaning against it. She hadn't given much thought to what she was going to do about Matthew, but now, seeing Jake Shepherd in person, one thought came through loud and clear. She didn't know how much trouble she was asking for and she didn't care. She only knew that she was not going to allow that—that subhuman animal waiting on the porch to take Matthew with him. Not a chance.
She had seen Matthew come to school battered, burned, hideously abused by his father—and those were only the things that were visible. She shuddered to think what else went on. Her determination to stop Jake Shepherd had caused her many a sleepless night, but she could never think of a way. Now she had a chance. Do what you dare, Jake Shepherd, she thought. I 'm not sending him off with you ever again.
She opened the door. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Shepherd, but Matthew isn't here."
"Where is he?"
"I believe he's gone off with my sons."
"Whereto?"
She shrugged and forced herself to smile brightly. "I really couldn't say just now. If you'll excuse me—" She began to close the door, but his foot kept her from doing so.
"My missus tells me he's been here since Friday." His face was darker now and his breathing was raspy, thick. Maybe he has consumption, Susannah thought. Maybe he'll get sick and die.
Aloud she said, "That's right. Your missus is right. He's working for me."
His voice was ugly. "What do you mean, working?"
"Exactly what I said. He's working for me in exchange for room and board. You know already, Mr. Shepherd," she said in her most reasonable tone, "that the Reverend has had a nasty accident. We needed someone to help out with the added chores."
"He's got chores of his own to do at home." He didn't know why he was bothering to discuss it with this fancy bitch.
"I understand he's been doing his chores in the early morning," Susannah lied. Just the look of the man and the smell of him was making her sick.
"I don't give no goddamn," he said, abandoning any attempt to be civil. "I want him home. Now."
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Shepherd," said Susannah with a calmness she did not feel, "but you see, I have no intention of ever letting Matthew come back to your house again." The last sentence she said so quickly that all the words seemed to run together.
He started forward. "What the hell do you mean, you…?" He stopped himself, a tiny trace of sanity in his brain cautioning him that this was not someone he could attack physically.
Susannah stood her ground, meeting his malevolent stare with cool dignity. You don't frighten me, you cretin, she thought. You don't know how courageous I've become since I've lived with Edwin.
