The Widow's War (30 page)

Suppose he’s right. Suppose this is the spark that will ignite the great civil war the
buzios
say is coming. Suppose his death and the deaths of these fourteen men will end slavery forever. Suppose only John Brown is capable of seeing this. Suppose he knows exactly what he’s doing. Could his plan work? She’s almost sure it couldn’t, but what if she’s the one who’s mistaken?

“It all keeps coming back to John the Revelator, doesn’t it?” she says.

Elizabeth sighs wearily. “Crazy or sane,” she says. “I wish to God I knew which.”

Lawrence, Kansas, late April 1856

 

 

 

M
rs. Presgrove?” An old lady’s voice, high and shaking. Carrie wheels around. The street is empty except for a man who is standing beside his horse inspecting the cinch on his saddle. As she walks toward him, he straightens up and turns toward her. He has red cheeks, curly white-blond hair, and blue eyes that seem slightly glassy.

“Excuse me, sir,” she says, “did you hear someone call out a name?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You didn’t hear an old woman?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

“No trouble at all, ma’am.” He tips his hat. “Pleased to have been of service.”

Carrie walks on, wondering if she imagined it. Behind her, Henry Clark finishes tightening the cinch on his saddle. “Mrs. Presgrove?” he whispers in a trembling, old-lady voice. He laughs and slaps his horse on the rump.
Found her!
he thinks.

Missouri, May 1856

 

 

 

O
n a warm day in late spring, a paddlewheel steamer pulls up to the Kansas Landing, double-stacked, three-decked, gold and white, pretty as a wedding cake. The passengers hang over the rails, four hundred men and not a single woman except a lady missionary from Providence, Rhode Island, who got on by accident in St. Louis and has regretted it ever since.

As the boat docks, the men wave their hats, church bells ring, and a brass band strikes up “Cheer Boys Cheer.” Six years from now that song will be the anthem of a group of Confederate guerillas, but on this warm spring afternoon, it merely provides a stirring musical background as the gangplank is rolled out and four hundred men from Alabama, Georgia, and South Carolina march onto Missouri soil in military formation carrying banners that read: KANSAS THE OUTPOST! SOUTHERN RIGHTS! and SUPREMECY OF THE WHITE RACE!

The man who organized this massive emigration of pro-slavers is Major Jefferson Buford of Eufaula, Alabama, but the man who paid for much of it is Deacon Presgrove, or to be more precise, Carrie, since Deacon used her money. By right of having made the second largest contribution, Deacon walks just behind Buford, leading the procession.

When Carrie lived with him, Deacon dressed in elegant suits—silk cravat tied just so, gold watch chain draped over his stomach, gray kid gloves on his hands, silk top hat on his head; but all that has changed. Today he wears a broad-brimmed western hat, a red flannel shirt, and homespun trousers tucked into cowhide boots. His belt, tooled with Mexican silver, is almost as wide as the palm of his hand. He bristles with pistols and a knife so long the scabbard impedes his progress, but he bears this inconvenience with a smile.

White teeth, glowing green eyes, flushed face: Deacon is happy, triumphant, ready to make a name for himself. His father has convinced him to stop wasting time in Mrs. Springer’s parlor. He has promised Deacon that if he goes to the Kansas Territory with Buford, the deeds he performs there will win him a fame that will carry him to the Senate—not the Senate that presently meets in Washington City, but a new Senate composed of Southern states that will soon meet in Charleston or Richmond, or perhaps even Louisville.

“Go to Kansas, kill some of those abolitionist bastards, and find your wife,” Bennett said. “You can’t afford to have her running loose if you plan to enter politics. A cuckold is a fool and an object of ridicule. I don’t care to open
Leslie’s Illustrated
and see a cartoon featuring my son in horns.”

Good advice, but easier to give than take. Deacon is just wondering if Henry Clark has had any luck locating Carrie, when he looks into the waiting throng and finds his answer. A pair of cold blue eyes is staring straight at him. Henry Clark smiles. Pursing his lips, he blows Deacon a kiss. For a moment Deacon feels like a small bird that has suddenly encountered an affectionate cobra.

He’s found her
, Deacon thinks,
or else he wouldn’t be here waiting for me.
He looks away and pretends to examine the bluff up ahead. The joy goes out of the day, and he feels as if something heavy has settled on his chest. The truth is, he doesn’t want Carrie back. He has her money; the rest is just trouble piled on trouble. Still there is his reputation to consider and the child of course. If his stepmother hadn’t started babbling about the little brat on her death-bed, he might have never known Carrie was breeding when she decamped. Deacon wonders if he is presently the father of a boy or a girl.
Father
, as in owner. He hopes this one hasn’t died like the last one. He’ll be able to make Carrie do anything he wants once he gets hold of her child.

Marry me, Carrie my dear,
he thinks.
And we’ll make some little hostages together.
He grins at his own wit. Then he remembers those cold blue eyes. When he looks into the waiting crowd, they are still fixed on him.

If Clark has found Carrie, it’s going to cost a bundle to pry her whereabouts out of him. Deacon would rather keep the money; he really would. But there are a dozen men standing around Clark, each more evil-looking than the next: big, unshaven men with dirty kerchiefs around their necks and rifles slung over their backs. Clark’s band. Or maybe they’re Mangas Coloradas’s band, or the Beast of Revelation’s, or Jesus Christ’s. Deacon can’t tell by looking who Clark is this afternoon, but even a fool can see it would be a bad idea to try to cheat him out of what he’s been promised. Those ruffians in the kerchiefs would probably be happy to kill a man for sport.

Deacon imagines himself stuck to a barn door with Bowie knives. He wonders if they would scalp him first, what parts of him they would cut off.
Damn,
he thinks.

He looks at the muddy path that leads up the bluff to the newly constructed pro-slaver hotel. The sun is ridiculously hot, the crowd has begun to cheer in a way that implies terminal drunkenness, the entire landing smells of manure, and he is bound to ruin his new boots before he gets to the top. He wishes his long underwear did not itch, wishes he were in bed romping with Lily, wishes Henry Clark would stop staring at him with those lunatic eyes.

J
ust before dawn. A faint paling of the eastern horizon, the rustle of small animals moving through the grass toward their burrows. Carrie and William get up, yawn, stretch, and trade morning kisses. They light a lantern, and while Carrie nurses Teddy, William stokes up the fire in the stove and makes breakfast. Fried ham, eggs, leftover cornbread from last night, a little reheated oatmeal for Teddy, a pot of coffee.

William eats rapidly. When he has drained the last sip of coffee from his cup, he grabs his rifle, slaps on his hat, kisses Teddy and Carrie good-bye, and hurries into town to relieve the men who are guarding the Free State Hotel. A little while later, half a dozen early risers stroll down Massachusetts Street to unlock their stores. When they reach the Free State, they stop to learn the latest news.

A peaceful night,
William and the other guards tell them.
No sign of trouble so far.

Good,
they say.
Glad to hear it.

The store owners walk on. Over Lawrence, Mount Oread looms like a great, black-pelted beast. At last the sun rises, hot and orange and so huge it looks like the mouth of a fiery tunnel. As the light strikes the slopes of Mount Oread, it reveals a mob of pro-slavers poised to descend on Lawrence. Armed with cannons, pistols, rifles, knives, swords, and hangmen’s nooses, they still bear the banners that read KANSAS THE OUTPOST! SOUTHERN RIGHTS! and SUPREMECY OF THE WHITE RACE!, but there is a new banner on Mount Oread this morning, one more terrible than all the rest. It is the banner of Henry Clark’s Raiders: an oblong of white cotton cut out of a bed sheet and dipped in blood.

There is no motto on Clark’s flag, only the blood, dried to reddish black. It comes from a pig slaughtered at Beau Rivage, the Missouri plantation of Clark’s cousin, Jedediah Clark, but whenever someone asks, Henry Clark claims it’s the blood of an abolitionist.

“Kill ’em all!” Clark yells, slapping Deacon Presgrove on the back. Deacon flinches and turns pale as around him Clark’s men cheer and discharge their pistols into the air.

 

 

 

 

 

D
own below, Carrie hears the sound of gunfire. Abandoning the breakfast dishes, she walks to the window and sees the army of pro-slavers gathered on Mount Oread. More gunfire. The sound of men cheering, but no movement yet. Their flags whip in the wind. Sunlight glints off the barrels of their cannons.

Suddenly, she feels sick with fear. She’s never witnessed a battle and never wants to. She imagines walls coming down, roofs blown off, the ugly hole in Ni’s arm that a single bullet made. The pro-slavers have promised to spare women and children, but she wouldn’t put it past them to use her house for target practice.

More gunfire. She starts and puts her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.
Why can’t they leave us alone? Why can’t they let us live in peace? We don’t want this war!
Turning, she hurries to Teddy, scoops him up in her arms, and holds him close. The second he catches sight of her face, he begins to howl.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” she pleads, but he can feel her fear, and he knows with that blind, perfect instinct of very young children that something is going on worth crying about.

 

 

 

 

 

U
p on Mount Oread, Clark pulls out a spyglass and peers down at Lawrence. Lowering the glass, he turns to Deacon with a look of disgust. “The craven milksops are still negotiating.”

By “craven milksops” Deacon presumes Clark means Sheriff Jones and the Eldridge brothers who own the Free State Hotel. If this is true, it’s good news. The attack still might be called off. Deacon doesn’t relish the prospect of walking into a wall of abolitionist gunfire or being shot in the back by one of Clark’s drunken henchmen.

Clark suddenly lifts his rifle and aims toward Lawrence. He hums cheerfully as he moves the barrel around searching for a target.

“What in God’s name are you preparing to do!” Deacon cries.

“I intend to shoot the Eldridge brothers. Quiet, please. It’s hard to tell those damn abolitionists apart at this distance. They’re all wearing black suits. If the Eldridges would just wear some kind of uniform, this would be infinitely easier. Peaked hats, perhaps. Dunces’ caps. Ah-ha!” Clark locks on his target.

It takes Deacon less than a tenth of a second to figure out that if Clark pulls the trigger there will be hell to pay. Lunging forward, he grabs the rifle barrel and shoves it to one side just as Clark shoots. The rifle goes off with a deafening bang, and he feels the recoil sting his hand. Shaken, he looks up to see Clark smiling at him.

“Thank you,” Clark says. “As you realized, rifles are not accurate at this range. I might have hit Sheriff Jones.”

“You’re welcome.” Deacon stutters. He is shaking so hard he can hardly keep his teeth from chattering. Whatever possessed him to foil Clark’s shot? Crossing the man is like taunting a mad dog.

Clark slings his rifle over his back and retrieves his spyglass. “She’s down there,” he says, using the glass as a pointer. “Last house on the right by the river.”

“Who?”

“Your wife. Mrs. Deacon Presgrove. Down there, living in sin with your own brother. Mangas Coloradas wouldn’t have tolerated it. If you like, we can ride down and pay her a visit while the rest of the army is otherwise occupied.”

“No, thank you, Henry. That’s a generous offer, but I would rather deal with Carrie by myself.”

“Suit yourself.” There is a moment of silence, and then Clark speaks again. “She has pretty hair. Blonde and curly. Rather like mine.” Clark runs his fingers through his hair and looks up at his flag. He’s clearly thinking about something. Whatever it is, Deacon hopes he keeps it to himself.

 

 

 

 

 

A
t noon, the men guarding the Free State are served roast beef sandwiches, slices of pie, and hot coffee. Up on Mount Oread, the only thing being served is whiskey, and even that is running low. Around one o’clock, a carriage rolls up the dirt track that leads to the crest. In it sits David Rice Atchison, the former Senator from Missouri. Due to a bureaucratic technicality, Atchison was once President of the United States for a single day. Ever since, he has been looking for a country to lead, and in Kansas he believes he has found it.

Atchison has previously called on pro-slavery Missourians to kill every abolitionist in the territory. Now, too portly to mount a horse, he stands in his specially re-enforced carriage and gives a speech that makes Deacon shudder.

“Kansas will be ours!” Atchison thunders. “We’ll teach those damned abolitionists a lesson they’ll remember until the day they die! Remember: if a woman picks up a rifle, she’s no longer a woman. Trample her under your feet as you would a snake! Blow her to hell with a chunk of cold lead!”