by John Babb
He knew there was no available wood at the dock to burn, as workers were always building fires to stay warm in the early morning, so he had to haul dry firewood in his wagon as well. Just before he left, he put a shovelful of dirt in the wagon and then placed a hollow bull horn on top of the dirt, with burning embers inside to make it easier to start his fire. Abbie handed him a jug full of well water. “When you get to the dock, add this to the soup. If I add it now, the pot will be too full, and you’ll slop soup all along Market Street from here to town.”
Ben scouted the dock, picking a spot along Front Street so that the smell of his soup could drift over to where men were unloading boats and loading wagons. Front Street was the virtual center of commerce in the town. The north side of the street had recently gotten wooden sidewalks installed so that men conducting business could stay out of the mud and manure near the riverbank. Ben counted eight warehouses stretched along the street for almost a quarter mile. Oftentimes, merchandise had to be temporarily stored before space could be found for it on another ship headed in the same direction. Sometimes there was scarcely room for an additional wagon or buggy on the street in front of the warehouses.
Ben soon got his fire started, and shortly after the coals burned down enough for him to put the soup on, two men walked over. The smaller one of the two had a permanent tobacco stain on the side of his chin, a wispy red mustache, and eyes that were so close together there was barely room for a nose in-between. His friend was a full head taller and displayed a bushy black beard. Ben couldn’t help but think of a bear when he looked at the bigger man, and that was only reinforced when he noticed the thick hair on the backs of his hands and the nasty, long fingernails. For a fact, they almost looked like claws. How in the world he worked on the dock with those nails, Ben couldn’t fathom.
Both men were wearing clothes that were various shades of gray, having long since lost any sign of a former color. They had been sweating from their work that morning, but the smell emanating from them had at least a month of heredity behind it.
The smaller one spoke through no more than a half dozen teeth. “What you doin’ here, boy?”
Ben felt the stirrings of uneasiness, but he had not come here to be scared of his first potential customers. “I’m about to sell stew and cornbread as soon as I can get it warmed up. It’s ten cents a bowl.”
A sharp laugh escaped from Beady Eyes. “That’s way too much. We’ll give ye two cents a bowl.” The man reached for a bowl.
“I’m sorry, but this belongs to my aunt, and her price is ten cents.” Ben didn’t figure on this happening.
Beady Eyes reached for the dipper, “I said ’twas two cents.”
Almost instantly the sharp “crack” of a whip rent the air beside Beady Eyes’ head. It happened so fast, Ben literally jumped a foot.
“Put the bowl down, Red, or pay the boy what he asks.” The voice came from a short, stocky man who wore a beaver cap with a turkey feather cocked to one side. Ben couldn’t tell how old he was, but his grey hair didn’t appear to be a factor in his willingness to mete out a dose of punishment if it was called for.
Red’s hand immediately went to the knife on his belt, thought better of it, and said, “We was just funnin’ with the little shite, Jeremiah.”
“Don’t be swearin’ now. You know I find it distasteful.”
“Sorry, Jeremiah. We meant no harm.”
“I’m real glad to hear that. If you’ve got ten cents, pay for your soup. Otherwise, you and Butter get back to work.”
Butter Simpkins turned to his smaller friend, vigorously bobbing his head up and down. “I shore would like some soup, Red. I shore would.”
Something in the big man’s manner made Ben realize he wasn’t quite right mentally. His speech was childlike in its animation and inflection, and his hands were in continuous motion, as though he had no idea what to do with them if they were not at work. But his physical presence was so imposing it was hard to see past it to the damage beneath the surface. Perhaps once upon a time the man had come by his nickname because he was pudgy and soft, but nothing could be less descriptive of the huge man now than “Butter.”
What a way to start a business, thought Ben. But he was even more surprised when both Red and his friend produced their coins. They greedily ate their meal and brought the bowls back. Butter spoke to Ben. “That was fine soup. Better’n they serve in town. You gonna be here tomorrow?” He turned to Red. “We can come back, cain’t we Red?”
“I’ll be here every day,” Ben said. The two men moved off and Ben turned to the man they called Jeremiah, “Thank you, sir. I didn’t exactly know what was going to happen next, but I wasn’t going to run off and leave my soup.”
Jeremiah grinned, “Glad I could help. Red won’t hardly pick on somebody less’n he’s bigger than they are.”
“Do you suppose they’ll give me a hard time every day?”
“Not likely. I’ll keep an eye out.” Jeremiah held out a dime, “Could I try that soup? One of the saloons in town sells what they have the gall to call chicken soup, but for all the chicken in it, I expect they only put in a rooster’s shadow.”
So the full-bodied soup and the comments of his first customers were great advertisements among the workers. In less than two hours, Ben was out of business, having sold twenty-three bowls of soup. He found Jeremiah and gave him his last corn muffin for free before heading home. He just couldn’t help keeping one hand in his pocket, jingling the silver as he walked. Tomorrow promised to be just as good. Almost all the men had wanted to know if he would keep coming to the dock.
He only told Abbie selected parts of his first day. He had to tell her about his new friend Jeremiah, but he considerably understated the “teasing” he had received from Red and Butter. With Jeremiah around, he felt like he would be safe enough at the docks.
Almost every morning he was able to put a rabbit, squirrel, or a pigeon in the pot. More vegetables became available in the garden. Abbie bought more bowls. Then townspeople began to drop by for soup. They had to buy another pot. Jeremiah always seemed to be around, but after a milder harassment incident, Ben was treated fairly well by everybody. He tried to give Jeremiah his soup for free, but the man wouldn’t stand for it. Every afternoon Ben was able to hand over three to four dollars to Abbie.
In 1848, the Ohio River was bound by the states of Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois on the north bank and Virginia and Kentucky on the south. It was also the geographic separation between northern “free” and southern “slave” states.
Jeffersonville was located along the Ohio, across the river from the big port at Louisville, Kentucky.
Ben had asked Jeremiah why so many boats stopped in Jeffersonville. Jeremiah explained, “Most of the year, these boats cain’t travel all the way from Pittsburg to where the Ohio meets the Mississippi without stopping and unloading their cargo right here or across the river at Louisville. Then me and my men move their load overland some two miles and then reload it on another boat headed on west. The Falls of the Ohio—that’s those wild rapids just downstream of here—are too dangerous for boats most of the year.”
“Both sides of the Ohio River compete for the business of unloading boats headed both upstream and down, portaging the load to the other end of the Falls, then reloading onto another boat bound in the same direction to complete the journey. Louisville is a fine port, but because of the tight bend in the river, Jeffersonville and Clarksville can move their loads quicker ’cause of the shorter distance on the north side of the river’s bend. We all depend on lots o’ riverboats stoppin’ on this side of the Ohio. All these dockworkers and draymen, not to mention the whole town, rely on a constant stream of watermen and boat passengers to keep their businesses alive.”
June and July passed, and August came on hotter than ever. Abbie gradually paid off her bills at Riley’s Store and Doctor Salyer’s office. She even bought some material to make Sue a new dress, Ben a shirt and pants, and a pair o
f shoes for each of them. As for the rest of the money, half went into the bank, and the remainder went into a jug underneath the floorboards of the cabin. She explained to Ben, “You’d best keep skunks and bankers at a distance. They’re too slick for my liking.”
Ben kept his promise. Despite the fact that he could almost hear the licorice jar calling to him from Riley’s Store, he buried his share in the chicken house at the end of every week and didn’t spend a cent.
The third Tuesday in August started out just like every other sweltering summer day in a river town. Ben arrived at the docks around eleven in the morning, got set up for business, and started selling at a pretty good clip. Twice that morning, he looked down the street and thought he saw Red looking at him, but whoever it was disappeared quickly behind the Fambrough Warehouse. When Jeremiah dropped by, Ben remarked, “Have you seen Red and Butter today? They usually never miss, and I’m about out of soup.”
“I saw them early this morning. They both said they were too sick to work.”
“That’s funny. I could swear I saw Red about an hour ago. Did they look sick to you?”
“Not no more than they usually do.”
For some reason he couldn’t really explain, Ben was uneasy that morning and finished his business, heading for home with still three or four bowls of soup left in the pot. The closer he got to the house, the more he hurried. Finally, he pulled his wagon into the bushes on the side of the road and began to run.
Abbie had finished picking vegetables for the next day’s soup and was cutting them up on the plank table, while Sue played on her pallet in the corner. She heard a dog bark from across the road, wiped her hands on her apron, and went to the door to see what might be getting the dog’s attention. There were two men on her front step—rough men.
The smaller one said, “You the soup lady ain’t ye.” It really wasn’t a question.
Abbie tried to keep her voice firm, but something wasn’t right about this. “Yes, I make soup and my nephew sells it in town.”
“You got any made up? We done missed our meal today.” He grinned at her. No wonder he liked soup—he lacked enough teeth in his head to chew anything more substantial. She tried to push the door closed, but his foot was inside the frame, forcing it to remain open. She could smell the applejack on his breath and see it in his eye.
She stood her ground. “No, I make it up fresh every morning.”
The small man looked down toward the road in both directions. “Let’s all go inside so’s we can talk.” He pushed the door out of her grasp and walked in.
Seeing that her only companion was a small girl, he spoke again. “Now let’s have us a discussion about all the money you been makin’ all summer. We figure you took in over two hunert dollars this summer. You’d best give it to us if you know what’s good for ye.”
Sue began to cry and Abbie looked over at her, finally getting her attention, then looked at the door, hoping her daughter would catch on and make a run for it. “What little bit I had left over is in the safe down at the bank.” Abbie was backed up against the kitchen table, and the shorter man was just inches from her face.
“I gotta say, Missy, that you got brass. But it jest don’t sell. Scarred up as yore face is, another cut or two won’t make no matter. But if you don’t tell us where you keep yore money, I’m gonna slice you good.” He pulled his knife from his belt and nonchalantly thumbed the edge.
The big man spoke. “Please don’t do that, Red. You promised this time.”
“Shut up, Butter!”
Abbie felt behind her on the table, found what she was looking for, and aimed her big vegetable knife at his chest. He reacted quickly, moving just enough that the knife sunk into his left shoulder, deep enough so that she couldn’t easily pull it out to try again. He screamed and hit her with the butt of his own knife on the side of her head. Abbie went down like a rag doll, and the man was right on top of her with his blade. Little Sue picked up a piece of firewood and hit him on the side of the head before he backhanded her, knocking her clear across the cabin.
The big man was wide-eyed. “Red, I think you done kilt the woman and mebbe the little girl too. You said there warn’t gonna be none of that. If they catch us fer this, they’ll hang us sure. I don’t wanta get hung, Red.” He shook his head slowly from side to side, and repeated himself. “Please, Red. Don’t wanta get hung.”
“The wench stabbed me! Cain’t you see that?” He had blood all over the left side of his shirt. “If she ain’t dead, she’s gonna wake up without no nose.” Red spit on his knife blade and wiped it off on his pants. “She’ll be breathin’ through two holes in her face when I finish with her.”
At that instant, Ben burst through the door, swinging his firewood axe. He hit Red on the right hip, cracking his pelvis and leaving the axe in the man’s flank, as blood poured out of the gash. Red screamed again but still managed to grab the boy by the throat. Ben felt the hand squeezing, could just barely hear the man cursing him, and was quickly becoming very dizzy. He could get no air at all and had no strength left to struggle.
A tremendous explosion went off behind his head and then another, and another, and another. Blood was everywhere—all over the floor—all over Ben. He was on his knees, coughing, and trying to catch his breath. His ears were ringing so badly, and he was so disoriented that at first he thought he was the one who had been shot and that all the blood belonged to him.
Someone picked him up and brought him outside. “You’re OK, son. You’re OK. I’ll be right back.” He returned in a minute with a hysterical Sue and laid her down with Ben. It was the neighbor, Mr. Finnerty! “Watch after her, son. I need to see ’bout Abigail.”
Mr. Finnerty appeared again, this time carrying the limp Abbie. Both of them were covered in blood. He listened to her chest and got up. Ben looked at her, scared to know the answer to his question. “Is she dead?”
“Her heart is still beatin’. Can you ride a mule?” Ben nodded his head.
“There’s a bridle on a post just inside my barn. Get to the doctor’s office first and tell him to get out here for Abigail. Then go fetch the sheriff. I believe I kilt both them boys in there.”
Mr. Finnerty was already holding a cool, wet rag to Abbie’s forehead, talking to her, and trying to wipe all the blood from her face when Ben took off. He had never been on a mule in his life, but desperation was a strong teacher. Clinging to the mule’s neck for dear life, he and the animal made fairly quick work of the trip to town, and Ben found the doctor where he generally was, playing checkers on his front porch. Thankfully, the doctor was losing, so he was only too happy to call the game on account of a medical emergency.
The citizens of Jeffersonville eyed Doc Salyer with a measure of uncertainty, never really quite trusting his medical abilities. It was easy to speculate that their lack of confidence was related to his funny accent, but the man had a dreadful tic in his right shoulder, and was liable to jerk vertically on one side every few minutes. Nobody relished the thought of him sewing up a wound with needle and thread.
Ben was able to get the doctor started for the cabin in his buggy then headed to the center of town to find the sheriff. The lawman was sitting in his office with his shoes off, picking at a huge blister on his big toe. His horse had come up just as lame as he was, so the only way to get him moving was to put him on the mule while Ben ran along behind.
Both the doctor and Mr. Finnerty were kneeling over Abbie when Ben returned, and he could see that she still was not responding. The doctor was looking in her ears and nose while Mr. Finnerty repeatedly whispered, “Abigail, can you hear me?” Sue had quieted down, but the side of her face was already purpling, and her lower lip was badly split.
The sheriff limped into the cabin for a few minutes, then came back outside and asked a question. “Would somebody explain to me how one of them boys has a kitchen knife halfway through his shoulder, an axe stuck in his side, one ear almost ripped off—reckon by a piece of firewood, cause the
re’s a chunk of bark inside his ear—and half the other side of his head is plumb shot off. Who in the world used all them weapons on that man?”
It took no small amount of deductive work for the sheriff to find out what happened, since none of them had seen the whole thing. “What kind of guns was used here? I count at least four bullet holes in them boys. How many shooters was there?”
Mr. Finnerty pulled a pistol out of his front pocket. “This was the gun that done all the shootin’. After I shot the red-haired man that had hold of Ben, the big man came for me. When I shot him the first time, he got his hands around my neck. He was squeezin’ so hard I thought he was gonna shake hands with himself. I had to shoot him twice more before he’d let go of me.”
The sheriff’s eyes fixed upon the large barreled pistol. The Dragoon Pepperbox, with its six barrels and walnut grip, held his interest far more than the chaotic aftermath of its power. “I don’t think I’ve seen a weapon like that afore. It’s shaped sorta like a derringer except for them six barrels. Where’d you get it?”
“Louisville. I took it off a mule driver that was threatenin’ to hold up a friend of mine.”
The sheriff looked at the skinny Mr. Finnerty with a new respect. He sent Ben back to town to fetch the mortician, who worked on healthier days as a carpenter, and to go tell Jeremiah Sledge that two of his dockworkers were dead.
Abbie was still unconscious, and her house was slippery with blood. Mr. Finnerty volunteered to put her in his house and agreed to help Ben clean up the gore in her cabin. Sue sat with Abbie with instructions to holler for them if Abbie stirred. About every hour, Ben and Mr. Finnerty paused in their cleaning and came over to the house to see how she was, even though there had been no sign of her awakening. Abbie was on a pallet on the floor, since Mr. Finnerty didn’t really have a proper bed. And his redbone hound had to be chased out of the house twice, as he apparently was accustomed to lying on the pallet too.