A House Divided

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  CHAPTER 35

  Belmont and I were back atop our horses, charging along the carriage path. My head was swimming.

  “You are familiar,” he said, as the cries of the Trailor brothers faded away behind us, “with a young woman who was staying at the American House with her cousin. A certain Miss Flannery.”

  I don’t bother asking how he knew. “Yes. Though I never properly met the cousin.”

  “I became acquainted with both of them. They were very interested in my business. Too interested. Their intentions were clear to me.” He rapped his animal with his walking stick, urging him to race ahead still faster. “But I underestimated them. To thieve from the thieves … this takes a good amount of preparation. And skill.”

  “It doesn’t have to be them,” I said, talking loudly over the horses’ clattering hooves. “The prairies are thick with banditti. It could have been anyone. And perhaps the woman was actually a slight man, in disguise, in order to throw us off the trail.”

  “If you wish to think that, I shan’t be the one to correct you. Such hopeful thinking is perfectly understandable for a man in your position.” Belmont managed to make one of his elegant shrugs while riding at full tilt; I’d never been more infuriated at him. “I have already told you that you won’t be the one to catch them, so what you choose to believe is not of consequence.”

  He rode ahead without a backward glance. I spurred Hickory to keep pace. I was determined to prove Belmont wrong, whatever that meant for Rose.

  A few miles later, Belmont turned back toward me. “Was she worth it?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who. The Irish lass.”

  “No—yes—ask me after we’ve caught them.”

  Belmont whipped his horse again and rode ahead. For an instant I thought he’d murmured in his wake, “I thought she was,” but no: surely it had only been the wind.

  An hour after we’d left the Trailors behind, we came upon Sugar Creek, a meander of water flanked on both sides by giant sycamores, some more than a dozen feet in diameter, as well as cottonwoods, hickories, and oaks. For most of the year it was a modest stream that emptied lazily into the Sangamon River. Now, however, fed by the spring rains, it was a swiftly moving current some fifty feet across. Belmont and I pulled up on a bluff and gazed across; the horses snorted warily. Two muskrats chased each other in the shallows along the far bank, which was straited with bands of red and yellow ochre.

  There were the unmistakable fresh tracks of a carriage in the mud on our side of the bank leading into the river and on the opposite side leading out. I pointed them out to Belmont, and he nodded.

  “How deep, do you reckon?” asked Belmont.

  I squinted into the swirling waters. “Could be six feet. Maybe more, this time of spring. There must be a ferryman near. I suppose that’s how they got across. Let’s call him.”

  I reached into my saddlebag and drew out a small horn. Wetting the mouthpiece, I gave three quick blasts. We listened intently. No response. The afternoon sun filtered through the latticework of vines clinging to the treetops and danced on the ground in front of us.

  “Try again,” suggested Belmont. I did, and again we listened. Hickory cocked her ears attentively. There was no reply.

  “I know a man,” I said, “who waited three days at a river trying to summon a ferryman. Three straight days, he blew his horn at regular intervals, day and night. Finally, on the afternoon of the third, the ferryman floated on up. Said he’d heard him all along but he’d been too damn lazy to answer the call. But when he kept at it, the ferryman figured he’d better answer so he could finally get some sleep.”

  “Waited three days?” repeated Belmont, incredulity in his voice.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve never.” He gave a great shout of “Alala!” and hit his horse on the rump with his walking stick. They charged down the bank and into the waters. The horse pranced through the river until the waters were up to its barrel; then it tossed its head and Belmont slid off, holding his saddlebags and the horse’s lead high above his head with one hand while he swam with the other. Side by side they paddled through the deepest part. When the horse found his footing again, Belmont floated over and threw his leg over its back. He rode him out of the shallows and up the bank on the other side. When they reached the top of the opposite bluff, Belmont swung his horse around and gave another “Alala,” this time triumphantly.

  “There’s your three days!” he shouted. “I’ll give you three minutes; then we’re going.”

  “Let’s go, girl,” I whispered into Hickory’s ear. It had been a while, but we’d used to swim together back home at Farmington, in the man-made lake my father had created. Hickory carefully stepped down the bank and into the creek while I held on tight, and we swam through the waters together, just like old times. A minute later, Hickory was striding up the bank to take her place next to Belmont’s horse, as I scratched behind her ear and whispered words of thanks.

  “I told you you’d have to abandon caution,” said Belmont, as if taking credit for Hickory’s feat.

  We resumed our ride through the vast, empty land. The sun and the breeze soon dried our wet clothing. We had seen only a handful of other riders out on the prairie all day. We had passed only one or two private dwellings and no inns or public houses at all.

  “We’ll come to the inn at Holland’s crossroads soon,” I said. “And the Illinois River is about twenty miles west from there. If we don’t catch them before we reach the river …” I didn’t voice the rest of the sentence aloud: I’ll never see Rose again.

  “We’ll find her, don’t worry,” said Belmont.

  The sun was starting to climb down the sky to our left. We surmounted a hillock, and looking far into the distance, we could see a structure with a thin line of smoke leaking from its chimney. A well-marked road in front of the building crossed the path we’d been following at a right angle.

  “That’ll be Holland’s,” I said. “We should ask if Holland has seen them.”

  Before long we were riding into the yard. We tied up the horses next to the trough, and Belmont started to head for the tavern. Before following him, I studied the yard. There was a dusty phaeton parked tight against the side of the barn. A fine Morgan was tied up nearby, grazing lazily from a pile of hay.

  “Look—over there!”

  My gun drawn, I hurried toward the carriage. It was empty. I climbed up onto the step and searched inside. No traveling trunk full of gold. Nothing.

  “I don’t see any owner’s markings,” said Belmont skeptically.

  “It’s just as Saunders described. The horse, too. And look.” I wetted my forefinger and traced it through the dusty sidewall of the carriage, revealing dark-blue paint underneath.

  “Something’s not right,” replied Belmont, shaking his head.

  I eyed him suspiciously. “We’ve caught up with them. I don’t see what’s not right. They must have figured they’d escaped by now, and they’ve taken a room inside the inn. Come, I’m friendly with Holland from the merchant circuit. He’ll tell us everything we need to know.”

  Inside, the public room carried a comforting, faintly sweet smell from the many pints of beer that had been spilled over the years. But the ready grin and wild side-whiskers of Holland were nowhere to be seen. Instead, we were greeted by a stranger, a stout man with thinning hair and thick fingers. He wore a bow tie and a fully buttoned black vest decorated with white swirls. The room was otherwise empty.

  “Where’s Holland?” I asked.

  “His wife’s bedridden,” the man answered. “I’ve agreed to stand for him this week. Are you needing lodging or just a meal?”

  Holland was a confirmed bachelor. But before I could signal Belmont, he charged ahead. “Do you have a pair staying here who drove up within the past few hours in the phaeton parked outside?”

  “Perhaps,” said the man.

  Belmont repeated the question, this time sliding a golden eagle a
cross the counter.

  “Certainly do,” said the man, nodding. “Told me they could pay in hard currency, and showed me the coins to prove it.”

  “Take us to their room.” Belmont dumped a few more golden eagles onto the counter.

  The innkeeper didn’t hesitate. “Follow me.”

  He led us out of the public room, past the kitchen, and through a warren of hallways until we reached a closed door at the end of a corridor. The innkeeper looked at Belmont, standing at my side. “Ready?”

  Belmont nodded. My hand tightened on my pistol; my heart beat rapidly. My eyes were fixed on the innkeeper’s left hand, poised next to the door handle.

  An enormous force crashed down on my head. And all was dark.

  CHAPTER 36

  When I awoke, I was lying on my side in a cold, damp room. I’d been stripped of my coat, and my shirt was soaked with sweat. When I tried to straighten up, I discovered my arms were tied together at the wrists and my legs tied together at the ankles. I strained against the ropes, but they were tight and did not budge. Looking through the sole window in the room, I could see that it was almost twilight outside. I’d been unconscious for several hours.

  “Belmont?” I called out.

  “Right here,” came a voice from behind me.

  I wriggled into a sitting position against the wall. Belmont was leaning against the opposite wall, bound in a similar manner. He, too, was missing his coat and personal effects. There was a cut on his forehead, covered with dried blood.

  “He got you too?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Right after you. I thought you said the innkeeper was a friend of yours.”

  “That fellow was an imposter.”

  “What?”

  I stared at Belmont, thinking about the look that had passed between him and the false innkeeper the moment before I was struck. I still didn’t trust the bandit banker.

  Belmont saw my expression. “Surely you can’t think I’m responsible for having us both assaulted.”

  “All I know is that you led us into an ambush. And that I’ve missed whatever’s transpired for the past few hours. Whatever plans you and the banditti have made.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a victim, too. I’ve suffered just as much as you.” He indicated the cut on his forehead.

  “That doesn’t mean—”

  The door was flung open and two persons walked in: Rose and her cousin, Patrick, both clothed in dusty traveling cloaks. The cousin wore a battered straw hat pulled low across his face. They were carrying our belongings, and they tossed them at us. I wriggled toward my coat and started feeling around for the pistol.

  “Don’t bother,” Patrick growled, and he showed me where he’d lodged my gun in his own coat pocket.

  “Rose—” I began.

  “Don’t say a word, Speed,” she said, her tone flat. “It will be better for both of us.”

  She had the same lovely face: two deep green pools for eyes and perfect auburn curls spilling out from beneath a cloth traveling cap. But her expression was wary, and her eyes were missing their usual shine. She was, I reflected, at once an intimate acquaintance and an absolute stranger.

  Her cousin was focused on Belmont. “I thought you told us you were a banker—cousin to the Rothschilds and all that,” he spat.

  “That’s right.”

  “You’ve been lying all along.”

  “Have I?” Belmont’s voice was neutral, betraying neither fear nor surprise.

  Patrick waved a torn piece of newsprint. “It says here you’re a counterfeiter.”

  “Certain authorities believe me to be,” said Belmont, with the hint of a smirk coming into his features.

  “Is it true?”

  Belmont shrugged. “I am informed that the newspapers in this country print the truth. Or at least they do sometimes.”

  “So you’re saying it is true?”

  “What do you think?”

  Patrick considered this, then: “Are you a good one?”

  “If I am one, I’ve never met anyone better.”

  “Who’s he?” The bandito nodded toward me.

  Belmont spit on the floor in my direction. “A sucker.” Rose stiffened.

  “What’re you doing keeping company with a sucker?”

  “I find it useful, on occasion, to have one around.”

  “He’s not a friend of yours?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “You mind if I shoot him with his own pistol?”

  “Mind?” Belmont gave a short laugh. “I’d be grateful. He’s grown tiresome. And there’s little worse than a tiresome sucker.”

  Until now I’d been willing to believe Belmont’s talk was all part of his act, but my confidence began to drain away as the bandito took out my pistol and checked to make sure a ball was loaded.

  “Help me, Rose,” I said.

  “Do what he says,” she replied, her face tense, “and no one will get hurt.”

  “Your name’s Speed?” Patrick said, waving my pistol in front of my face.

  I flinched. “That’s right.”

  “Is this fellow telling us the truth? He’s a counterfeiter and you’re his sucker?”

  I decided I had little choice but to follow Belmont’s lead. “It’s news to me,” I said, doing my best to appear vexed, “but I suppose it must be so.” I sighed, perhaps too grandly, but fortunately the bandito did not appear to be a particularly astute student of the human condition. He seemed, instead, pleased that he had mastered the situation.

  “Well, I’ll be,” he said, nudging Rose in the ribs. “I’ll be.” Rose’s expression hardened further.

  “Where’s the gold shipment you stole?” I said. “If it doesn’t get returned to the State Bank, this economic depression is never going to end.”

  The bandito waved my gun in front of my face again. “It’s our gold now,” he sneered.

  “The State of Illinois needs that gold.”

  “We need the gold,” broke in Rose in an urgent tone.

  “You don’t, Rose. No one does. Not a whole trunk’s worth. Take a few coins, if you must, and leave the rest.”

  Patrick laughed harshly, but the features of Rose’s face had sprung to life. “Don’t you understand, Joshua? It’s not for the two of us. It’s the rightful property of our kin. All our kin. None of us have been paid for months for the work we’ve done on your canal. Our fathers can’t keep their children safe. Our mothers can’t keep their children’s bellies full.” Her eyes shone with determination. “We didn’t take the gold for ourselves. We claimed it for the people.”

  “Lincoln and the legislature are going to make sure your countrymen get paid. But they need the gold back to do it.”

  Patrick shook his head. “We saw the way your legislature works, staying there at the hotel across the street for the past month. The rich get paid. The politicians get paid. But the people don’t. Especially not the Irish.”

  “It’ll be different this time,” I said. Turning to her, I added, “Rose, I swear it. This time will be different. You have my word.”

  “And you’re going to make it so?” sneered her cousin. “You, Speed? You’re a shopkeeper. You’re nobody.”

  “Lincoln will make it so,” I said.

  Belmont laughed harshly. I turned to him, angry. “What are you laughing at?”

  “I don’t know which of you is more pathetic,” he said. “The gold shipment. Ha! All of you are wasting your time.”

  Patrick started to challenge Belmont, but Rose put her hand on his arm. “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  “Most of the coins in the trunk you stole are fake. Cheap metal painted to look like gold. You read the newspaper article. You think I’d give the State Bank actual gold coins?” Belmont sneered. “You picked the wrong ticket. But you know what’s a whole lot more valuable than fake gold coins? Paper! Now there’s the right ticket.”

  “What’s valuable about paper?”

  “There’s a stage
passing along the road outside any minute carrying a pouch stuffed full of blank bank notes.” Belmont looked Patrick square in the eyes. “Do you know how much blank bank notes are worth?”

  “How much?”

  “Tell me what number to fill in. Any number. Five dollars a note? A hundred? Times thousands of blank notes. That’s how much they’re worth.”

  The cousin turned to Rose, perhaps intrigued by Belmont’s offer, or perhaps confused by the math problem he’d served up. In any event, their attention left him for a moment. In a flash, Belmont grabbed at his walking stick, which the cousin had thrown at his feet. Belmont twisted the stick and one end slid off like a scabbard, and he was left holding a long knife, a sword in effect, rapier-sharp.

  With two quick movements Belmont slashed through the ropes binding him. He leapt to his feet and slashed the bandito’s hand. The man cried out in pain, blood gushing from his wrist, as my gun clattered to the floor.

  “Untie me!” I shouted at Belmont.

  But Rose’s cousin soon regained his wits and he raised his arms into a fighting position, fists clenched, ready for combat, even as blood continued to leak from his wound. The two men circled each other warily.

  “Help me, Rose!” I cried.

  Rose knelt on the floor near me and stared directly into my eyes. My breath caught, and I felt the same frisson of excitement I’d felt when we’d been alone in her room at the American House.

  “Help me,” I said again, more quietly.

  “I can’t,” she mouthed.

  Rose picked up my gun from the floor. Then she stood and, gathering her skirts, ran from the room.

  CHAPTER 37

  Belmont and Rose’s cousin fought, hand to hand, while I watched helplessly from the floor. Belmont had the advantage of being armed with his walking stick–turned–knife, but Patrick was tall and broad shouldered and, it soon became clear, an experienced grappler. They crashed into each other and into the walls of the bare room, neither party obtaining the upper hand.

  “Untie me,” I shouted at Belmont, “and I’ll help you.”