American Blood (11 page)

Delgado tried to convince himself that they weren't all staring at him and Sarah, that they weren't all talking about the dark stranger and the brash girl who had come from the East with her head full of silly—some might go so far as to say dangerous—notions. Some were bound to be wondering why Sarah Bledsoe wasn't dancing with their host. Horan's designs where she was concerned were no secret. First the incident on the
Sultana
, then the freeing of the abolitionist, Rankin, and now this—Delgado felt like a man sitting on a powder keg and playing with matches. But with Sarah in his arms he didn't really care. Only one thought troubled him.

Suddenly, he had no desire to go home. The war and all its attendant woes seemed far, far removed and singularly unimportant.

After the waltz came a quadrille, and then one of the new polkas, and Sarah was as light as a feather in his arms, as graceful as a gazelle. She complimented him on his skill.

"I Suppose you have danced with many women," she said, fishing for a compliment.

"None as beautiful as you."

She laughed. "How gallant, Mr. McKinn! You
have broken many a young girl's heart, as well, I'd wager."

"Proper young ladies do not make wagers," he replied, a mock rebuke.

"I am hardly that. You should know by now."

"One thing I do know," he said gravely. "I will discover what it is like to have my heart broken when I leave for Taos."

The smile left her lips. His heart raced. Could it be that she dreaded that moment as much as he?

The music stopped. The dance was over, and Sarah expressed an interest in a refreshment. They moved to the most convenient table. With haughty disapproval on their faces, two matronly women took themselves elsewhere. A gentleman performed a stiff bow and also departed.

"You'd think we were typhoid carriers," said Delgado, annoyed.

"If you care what they think, then I am sorry I involved you in last night's affair."

"I have no regrets."

"Oh, dear," she said, surveying the lavish offerings on the table. "I would prefer a cup of switchel. I think there might be some at that table over there. Would you mind terribly?"

"My privilege." Delgado left her and found the switchel—a chilled drink made of molasses, water, and a dash of vinegar—precisely where she had suggested he look. As he waited for the servant to pour, he overheard the conversation of two men who stood nearby.

"No American force will ever be defeated by any amount of Mexican troops, sir," declared one. "Our boys are of superior stock and will give the Mexican's 'a hard lesson' at every turn. They will never acknowledge the corn, as we say, to a mon
grel cross between the Negro and the Indian. The war will be of short duration, you can be sure."

The second man wholeheartedly concurred. "Everyone knows the enemy lacks both courage and discipline. But then, what can you expect? The nature of a society reflects the kind of army it is capable of putting into the field. The Mexican people have been oppressed for centuries by military and religious despots. Naturally their character is inferior to ours."

"I think it unlikely," said the first, "that Mexico will long continue her existence as a nation. Already she has lost Texas. Now Yucatan is seeking independence, and California has been semi-independent for years. Mexico's best fate would be to become a protectorate of these United States, sir. By reason of our situation, the genius of our people, and the form of our institutions, we can confer upon the people of Mexico the industry and government that will cure their impoverished state."

"Yo' drink, suh."

Delgado thanked the old Negro and was just turning to look for Sarah when a shout and a crash caused the musicians to cut short the tune they had just begun and made everyone in the hall stop what they were doing. The servant at the table where Sarah stood lay on the floor. Over him loomed a man Delgado did not recognize. Flush with excitement, the man had a piece of paper clutched in his hand, which he shook furiously in Sarah's face.

"You gave this to him. Do not try to deny it. I saw you with my own eyes."

"I don't deny it," was Sarah's calm, defiant reply.

With a knot in his stomach Delgado started for
ward, but Brent Horan reached Sarah's side before him.

"What is the meaning of this, Taylor?" he asked Sarah's accuser.

"This! This is the meaning." The man gave the paper to Horan.

As the evidence passed into Horan's possession, Delgado recognized it, and the blood ran cold in his veins.

The pamphlet!

The abolitionist manifesto that Horan had taken from Jeremiah Rankin aboard the
Sultana
, which had passed from him to Sterling and then to Delgado, and which in turn Delgado had given to Sarah in the garden two nights ago—and promptly forgotten all about.

Horan took one look at the pamphlet and all color drained from his face. He glared at Sarah.

"Where did you get this?"

"What does it matter? I am a member of the society, and I gave it to your slave, Brent, so that he might share it with the others, in the hopes that at least one might be able to read what it contains, and share the message of freedom with the rest."

"My God," rasped Horan. He seemed to rock back on his heels, as though Sarah had slapped his face. "I welcome you into my home in spite of what you did last night, and this . . . this is how you repay my kindness? My . . . my love for you?" A cloud of untempered fury darkened his features. Trembling with rage, he forgot himself and grabbed Sarah so roughly by the arm that she winced.

A throng of people was gathering; Delgado pushed through them.

"Take your hands off her," he snapped, his black eyes flashing.

"Ah, here he is again," sneered Horan. "The defender of abolitionists." He let go of Sarah.

"Come on, Sarah," said Delgado. "We had better go."

"Yes, take this nigger-loving vixen out of my house," said Horan bitterly.

Delgado whirled. The words, though meant for Sarah, stung him like a whip and ignited his temper. He still had the cup of switchel in his hand; he flung its contents into Horan's face. The crowd uttered a collective gasp.

"That's no way for a gentleman to talk," said Delgado coldly.

He thought for an instant that Horan was going to lunge at him. But Horan, though consumed by a towering rage, stood rigidly in place.

"You will pay for that," he whispered. "My representative will call on you."

Jeremy appeared at Sarah's side, his features taut and pale. "You have insulted my sister, sir," he told Horan. "I, too, will expect satisfaction."

Brent Horan's smile was wintery. He bowed stiffly at the waist. "I am at your service, Mr. Bledsoe."

Delgado escorted Sarah through the ring of spectators, who parted to let them pass. All eyes were on them as they crossed the great hall, a seething Jeremy limping along behind them. Jacob Bledsoe met them at the door, wringing his hands in distress.

"Dear God, child," he gasped at Sarah, "what have you done? What have you done?"

2

"Outrageous! Outrageous conduct!" Jacob Bledsoe paced the rose-patterned rug in the front parlor of his house, so agitated that he could not stand still for a moment. "I rue the day I sent you East, daughter. I should have known better. You are too impressionable. Too impressionable by far! You don't have the good sense to ignore the rantings of abolitionists and other reformist crackpots. Shame, shame on you."

"Shame on
you
, Father!" retorted Sarah. "Aren't you an American? Don't you love freedom? Slavery makes a mockery of our nation's principles."

Bledsoe actually covered his ears with his hands. He looked silly, mused Delgado, but there was nothing really amusing about the situation. He still could scarcely believe that Sarah had been so rash as to smuggle the abolitionist pamphlet into Blackwood and hand it, in front of God and everybody, to the old Negro working the refreshment table. Surely, she had not expected to get away with that. Obviously she had intended to cause a scene. As a result, if Brent Horan had his way, blood would be spilled.

And yet Delgado could not muster one iota of resentment, though his was the blood most likely to be shed. Sarah was headstrong, but that was part of what made her so irresistibly attractive to him. At least she had the courage of her convictions.

"I won't listen to that kind of talk," declared Bledsoe. "No, I won't listen. The circulation of material such as you had in your possession is not only wicked, it is unlawful."

Sarah shook her head. "You don't realize what
you're saying, Father. You support the censorship of ideas? Is that not a conspiracy against the rights of free men and women? Does that not make us the
white
slaves of the masters of black slaves? I suppose the next step will be that we must all get down on our knees when a man like Brent Horan enters the room."

"Oh, what has become of my little girl?" bemoaned Bledsoe.

"Your little girl has discovered that she has a mind of her own," replied Sarah hotly. "And she intends to speak her mind whenever the mood strikes her."

"And you have put at risk your brother's life in the process, and the life of my friend's son."

She glanced at Delgado, and his pulse quickened; undeniably she cared for him and was afraid for his life.

"Don't fear for me," he said. "I have no intention of fighting a duel."

Until that moment Jeremy had been brooding silently, slumped in a chair. Now he shot to his feet.

"I have every intention of doing so! I will not allow any person, least of all Brent Horan, to insult my sister."

"He called me a nigger lover," said Sarah. "I do not consider that an insult. It is the truth."

"Sarah!" exclaimed Jacob Bledsoe.

"I love them as I love all people. What's wrong with that?"

"Horan's intentions are what matter, not his words," said Jeremy stiffly. "From his point of view it was the worst possible insult. And he called you a vixen, besides."

Sarah shrugged a fetching shoulder. "Who knows? Perhaps I am that, as well."

"You have certainly been acting the part since you came home," lamented Jacob Bledsoe.

"Have a care, Father. Jeremy might challenge
you
to a duel."

"There will be no dueling," Bledsoe told his son. "I will not permit it."

"You cannot prevent it," Jeremy said.

"Brent Horan would surely kill you. He has slain two men in previous duels."

"That has absolutely no bearing on my decision."

"Honor," said Delgado, "means doing the right thing regardless of the consequences."

Jeremy stared blankly at him.

"Those were your own words, I believe," continued Delgado. "You went on to define 'right thing' as abiding by the laws of God and man. If you believe in what you say, you must turn the other cheek or take Horan to court. But a duel is no recourse for an honorable man."

Wordless, Jeremy sank back into his chair. He could not argue with himself.

"No one will fight a duel on my account," said Sarah. "I will not stand for it. I was not insulted by Brent Horan's words, so no one else should be."

"Enough," said Jacob Bledsoe. "Quite enough. I will countenance no further discussion on the subject. Sarah, go to your room and stay there until I summon you. Jeremy, Delgado, go pack your belongings. You are both leaving St. Louis tonight."

"I will not run away," said Jeremy.

"I am your father, and you will obey me. I have
sent for Hugh Falconer. He will get you both safely away. I only hope and pray that he arrives in time."

There was nothing more to be said. Delgado and Jeremy followed Sarah upstairs. She did not turn around, or give Delgado so much as a glance. Delgado was in perfect anguish.

The time had come for him to go, and yet he did not want to leave. Before two days ago he had not given Sarah Bledsoe a thought; today the future looked gray and cheerless and futile without her in it.

In his room Delgado packed his bags and then stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head, to stare bleakly at the ceiling. He felt like a condemned man languishing in his cell as he awaited the long walk to the gallows, for leaving Sarah was like death. No, worse than death. She was as much an essential part of his life as breathing. How had this come about so swiftly?

He had known many women in his life; his looks and bearing had always attracted them. In Taos, in England, during his tour of the United States, beautiful women had always been there for the asking. He had admired their beauty and enjoyed their company when it suited him and then gone his way without a backward glance or so much as a twinge of remorse. Perhaps he had broken a few hearts, but he had never given his own.

Sarah, though—Sarah was different. She made him feel so alive. Other women paled into insignificance, seemed such dull and lifeless creatures, by comparison to her. He was miserable just being across the hall from her—to be half a continent apart was an unbearable prospect.

Yet what was there to do? He could not remain
in St. Louis, regardless of Brent Horan. Of course, even if he stayed, he would have to leave this house, and Jacob Bledsoe would probably forbid him to see his daughter again. In that event Sarah would have to choose—her father or him. Delgado could not put her in that predicament. He loved her too much.

A couple of hours later, shortly after the clock in the hall chimed midnight, he heard someone at the door downstairs. Falconer? Or Horan's representative? Perhaps Horan himself, come to have his vengeance, and to blazes with protocol. For Delgado, Horan was of little consequence, compared to the pure torment he suffered over Sarah.

Leaving the room, he went to the head of the stairs and saw Bledsoe and Hugh Falconer in the hall below.

" . . . so you can understand why I summoned you at this hour," Bledsoe was saying "Lives hang in the balance."

Falconer nodded. Some sharply honed instinct alerted him to Delgado's presence; he turned and looked up the staircase and smiled at Delgado. That smile, calm and confident, seemed somehow a comfort to Delgado. It reassured him that, as dark as things now appeared, all would be well in the end.