American Blood (33 page)

"Did you hear from Allan again?"

"He wrote to me a couple of times. I was the only one he wrote to, apparently, and he made me promise not to tell anyone where he was. I kept that promise. And then, for a long while, I received no word from him. I became concerned. Finally, I heard from a woman who had worked as his housekeeper in Paris. Allan was dead. His
body had been found in the Seine. His death was ruled a suicide. I suppose he'd never gotten over Annabel. So you see, he died, alone in a strange land, for my sake."

"And you blame yourself as much as you blame Brent Horan. Or more."

"Of course I do," said Jeremy bitterly. "I was a coward. I should have taken responsibility from the very first, but I didn't, and things got out of hand, and once Brent made his accusations, it was too late, because Allan would never back down from Brent. Never give Brent the satisfaction. It was between the two of them. Do you see what I mean?"

Delgado nodded. It all made sense to him now. Not just Jeremy's hatred for Brent Horan, but also his friend's compulsion to place himself in jeopardy on the field of battle. And, soon, on the field of honor. Jeremy did not want to live. The deaths of Annabel Christophe and Allan Horan burdened his soul.

Doc Loveless had still not arrived. Jeremy was getting anxious, constantly glancing at the eastern sky, trying to calculate the precise imminence of dawn. "We will wait ten minutes more," he told Delgado, consulting his keywinder. "Then we will have to go on without the good doctor." Delgado nodded. A gentleman was not late to his own execution. That would be exceedingly bad form.

Loveless arrived in the nick of time, driving a buggy at breakneck speed. Jeremy introduced him to Delgado. The physician was perfunctory in his courtesy. "Let's get on with it, shall we, gentlemen?" he asked, fishing his own timepiece out of a vest pocket. Jeremy stared at the black medical grip Loveless removed from the buggy. Wonder
ing, assumed Delgado, if the neatly rolled bandages and astringents and steel instruments contained therein would have to be employed this morning in a desperate battle to save his life. The arrival of the doctor seemed to have a sobering effect on Jeremy. But Delgado knew his friend wasn't going to back down. Not after all these years of being haunted by two ghosts.

They got into the rowboat, and the boatman pushed off, then settled down with the oars. He obviously knew this stretch of river well, for he managed to negotiate the tricky currents with almost contemptuous ease and landed them at the northern tip of Bloody Island. Chunks of ice, some bigger than the boat, as well as dead animals, uprooted trees, and other flotsam provided obstacles in the swift main current, but the boatman deftly avoided all hazards. No one uttered a word during the crossing. Delgado tried to keep his teeth from chattering. The morning was bitterly cold and seemed colder still on the river. Besides that, his nerves were frayed.

Bloody Island was approximately two hundred yards at its widest point, and nearly a quarter of a mile in length. Most of it was thickly wooded. The dueling ground was a clearing along the eastern shore, out of sight of St. Louis. There was a law on the books in both Missouri and Illinois against dueling, and though it was not strictly enforced, men engaged in affairs of honor preferred secluded spots where no one was likely to witness the activity. Bloody Island fit the bill perfectly, and had been used for the purpose for more than thirty years, although Delgado had learned that it had acquired its name as a result of a fight back
at the turn of the century between Indians and keelboatmen.

Another boat was beached on a sandy spit at the northern tip of the island, and the boatman sat on a nearby log, puffing phlegmatically on a corncob pipe. His attitude was one of a man who had not a care in the world, and, unreasonably, Delgado resented him for it. Their boatman joined the other after Jeremy had given him payment for the passage over. It was simply sound business practice, mused Delgado, to require cash on the barrelhead from a customer who was on his way to possible death.

Jeremy led the way along a footpath that twisted and turned through the dark, silent woods. Just as they reached the clearing, golden shards of sunlight began to pierce the overgrown verdure. Immediately, a mockingbird launched into song. The mighty river murmured as it rolled by. The wooded hills of Illinois made a pretty picture a quarter mile to the east. But the bucolic pleasantness of the scenery was lost on Delgado. Brent Horan and William Darcy stood together in the clearing, and his undivided attention was focused on them. Darcy came forward.

"Gentlemen," he said with a curt, barely civil nod.

"We are here on a solemn and unhappy occasion," said Dr. Loveless gravely. "Is there any possibility of reconciliation?"

Jeremy shook his head. Loveless turned to Darcy, brows raised in a silent query.

"Mr. Horan requests that we proceed," said the gambler. "Unless Mr. Bledsoe wishes to withdraw."

Jeremy glanced at Delgado, who realized he
was expected, as Jeremy's second, to speak for his friend.

"Mr. Bledsoe has no intention of withdrawing," he told Darcy.

"Then," said Loveless, "it becomes the duty of the seconds to see to the loading of the weapons."

Delgado drew two pistols from the pockets of his longcoat. He carefully measured powder, rammed home the bullets, and affixed the percussion caps. Having rejoined Horan, Darcy was similarly employed. Delgado offered both pistols to Jeremy. Jeremy selected the one he wanted, and Delgado slipped the other back into a pocket.

"Thank you, Del," said Jeremy, his voice without emotion.

"God bless you, Jeremy." There was much more that Delgado wanted to say. He wanted to plead with his friend to refrain from going through with this madness. He wanted to convince Jeremy that as a young man he had his whole life ahead of him. That there was no point in living in the past. One had to live for tomorrow. Everyone made mistakes. That his death would break his ailing father's heart. That he, Delgado, would miss him terribly. But he said nothing else, knowing it would all be quite fruitless.

"The time has come, gentlemen," said Loveless.

Delgado helped Jeremy shed his heavy cloak. Jeremy shuddered and smiled at Delgado. "Quite cold this morning."

Delgado nodded. Across the clearing Brent Horan was suddenly doubled over and racked by coughing. Darcy supported him, or he might have fallen to the ground. Delgado watched hopefully. Perhaps Horan would become too ill to continue. Maybe God would spend a miracle. But Loveless
was marking off five paces, and when he was done, Horan had straightened up and was no longer coughing.

"Five paces—fifteen feet," said Loveless. "Is that agreeable?"

Delgado was horrified. At such close range there was bound to be bloodshed. He had hoped the two principals would stand at either end of the clearing. That way, with luck, Horan might miss Jeremy. A fragile hope, but Delgado was clinging to slender threads.

"Quite," said Darcy.

After glancing at Jeremy, who nodded, Delgado sighed and said, "Yes."

"The principals will take their places." Loveless had made two distinct marks in the frosty grass with the heel of his boot. Jeremy and Horan stood at these marks. Loveless had paced off his line at right angles to the rising sun so that neither man would have it in his eyes. Suspended just above the Illinois shoreline, the sun was directly in Delgado's eyes, but he didn't move. He felt the sun's meager warmth on his face and listened to the mockingbird progress rapidly through its astonishing repertoire.

"Gentlemen," said Loveless, "you may cock your pistols. You will hold them pointed at the ground until I give the signal. When I say
Fire
, you will have to the count of four to discharge your weapons. I will count out loud, slowly, and then give the signal
Stop
. You may not fire before or after the count of four. If you do, Mr. Horan, Mr. McKinn will be obliged to shoot you. If
you
do, Mr. Bledsoe, Mr. Darcy will be within his rights to shoot you. Is that understood?"

"Yes," said Jeremy.

Horan nodded.

"Gentlemen, are you ready?"

"Ready," said Jeremy.

"I'm ready," said Horan.

Delgado thought,
I could draw this pistol from my coat and kill Brent Horan where he stands
.

And then what would happen? Darcy would shoot him, and Jeremy would shoot the gambler Darcy. In that scenario, at least Jeremy might survive.

But, Delgado reminded himself, Jeremy does not want to survive. Then, too, there was Sarah.
You selfish, cowardly bastard
, Delgado thought bitterly, hating himself so much at that moment that he could taste bile. As had happened at Blackwood, when Horan gave him an opportunity to save the slave named Naomi, Delgado found himself unwilling to sacrifice himself.

"Fire!" said Loveless. "One—two—three—"

Jeremy and Horan raised their pistols simultaneously, fired as one. They stood so close that it seemed to Delgado that the muzzles of their weapons almost touched. He saw the blossoms of flame, shrouded in acrid white powder smoke, saw Horan rock back on his heels, thought for one brief instant that by some miracle Jeremy had actually won the day—and then watched in horror as his friend pitched sideways to lie on his face in the grass, unmoving.

He rushed forward, reaching Jeremy just as Dr. Loveless did. Gently, they rolled him over. A patch of blood was growing on the front of Jeremy's white shirt. Delgado watched Loveless tear the shirt open, examine the wound, feel for a pulse at Jeremy's wrist, then at his neck, and finally close Jeremy's sightless eyes.

"He is dead," said Loveless. "Shot through the heart. May God have mercy on his soul."

The doctor rose and glanced at Darcy, who was supporting Horan's weight. Horan was pressing his right arm against his side.

"Are you hit, sir?"

"Just a scratch," said Horan hoarsely.

Greatly shaken, feeling numb, Delgado stood and turned to face Brent Horan, very much aware of the weight of the pistol in his coat pocket.

"Well, then," said Horan with an infuriatingly casual smile as Loveless bent to examine his wound. "That's finally settled. Now there remains the business between us, McKinn."

Delgado shook his head. "You fool. You didn't win anything today. Whether he killed you or you killed him didn't matter to Jeremy. He got what he wanted."

"And what was that?"

"Atonement."

He turned away from Horan, picked Jeremy up, and walked back through the dark, silent trees with the body of his friend in his arms, while the mockingbird continued to sing somewhere in the branches overhead.

Chapter Thirteen

"Dying for the wrong cause"

1

T
hat day and all the next, Jeremy Bledsoe's mortal remains lay in an open casket in a downstairs room, and the macabre rituals of death were carried out. He was attired in his Regular Army uniform. Delgado was nearly certain that Jacob would not survive to see his son laid to final rest; the old man refused to leave the chair that he had positioned at the head of the casket. When friends of the family came to pay their last respects, they would offer him their sincerest condolences, but most of the time he did not seem to even be aware of their existence. He kept staring at Jeremy's face as though he expected his son to open his eyes at any moment.

Dr. Lowry and his wife came, as did Joshua Pilcher and his wife. Jessie Benton made an appearance, representing her father, Senator Thomas Hart Benton. Old Bullion was in Washington, trying to put a stop to a war that had raged long enough. There were others—many others—that Delgado had never met. He did not care to meet them now, either. He watched their coming and going from the window of his upstairs room, from which he seldom strayed, not wishing to intrude upon Jacob Bledsoe's grief, or Sarah's. And feeling a good deal responsible for that grief, besides.

"I suppose I should have tried harder to stop him," he had told Sarah. "But I didn't. Not really. If you hate me, Sarah, I will understand. I wouldn't blame you if you did."

"Hate you? Don't be silly. I love you, Del. You mustn't blame yourself. There was nothing you could have done. Don't you think I know how Jeremy was? I remember Annabel Christophe. I was a few years younger than she, but I remember quite well when she died. And even though Father tried to shelter me from the rumors that were flying about, I heard them. Like everyone else, I thought there must have been some truth in what Brent Horan said about his brother. Allan's disappearance seemed to confirm it. Jeremy never told me what really happened."

"In part that is what he couldn't live with," said Delgado. "Perhaps I shouldn't have told you the truth, either." He had told her everything Jeremy had said, thinking she had the right to know.

"No, you were right to do so. In fact, I think everyone should know the truth. People should know Brent Horan for the liar he is."

"Maybe you're right," conceded Delgado.

He wrote down, to the last detail, Jeremy's version of what had happened to Annabel Christophe and why. The next morning he called on Stephen Maitland at the offices of the St. Louis
Enquirer
.

"
I would like you to print this in your newspaper," he said.

Maitland took the letter. "What is it, Mr. McKinn?"

"You might say it is the confession of a man who knew he was about to die."

As he read, Maitland turned more pale than
usual. "Good heavens! I . . . I don't know that I can do what you ask, sir."

"What's the matter? Are you afraid of Brent Horan?"

"He is a . . . a very powerful man."

Delgado was in no mood to play games. "So am I, Mr. Maitland. I have a good deal of power over you, now don't I?"

Maitland's owlish eyes blinked rapidly behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. "You mean . . . you mean Clarisse, of course," he whispered.

"Perhaps I should bring the matter up with your superior. I believe the owner of this newspaper visited the Bledsoe house this very afternoon. He has long been acquainted with Jacob Bledsoe, hasn't he?"