Orphan Hero

by John Babb

  In B. F.’s defense, he was desperately trying to think of a casual way to infer that he was interested enough in her that he didn’t want things to come to an abrupt end in Waynesville. But he had received no sign from her that this was even on her mind. Did the woman not know that her home was no more than two hours down the road? It was exasperating.

  Forty-One

  What Did You Do In The War?

  Waynesville, Missouri 1865

  When they arrived about four o’clock in the afternoon, B. F. made a point of asking the station agent in front of Crocia when the next stage would come through for Springfield.

  “Twelve-forty tomorrow. Be on time. It don’t stop but for ten minutes.”

  “Is there a hotel close by?”

  “One block north—Mad Anthony Wayne’s Hotel.” The agent shrugged. “Waynesville, ye know.”

  “Thank you, sir.” B. F. started in that direction, but Crocia pulled his arm.

  “Let’s go see my Papa at his store before he leaves for home. Our house is a pretty good walk if we miss a ride.”

  Like his daughter, Luther Rayl was tall, but that was about the extent of the resemblance. He had a long, wispy beard that was shot full of grey, and bad scarring on his cheeks, nose, and forehead from what had probably been a severe case of acne. B. F. wondered if the beard was an attempt to cover up what he could of his face. When he saw his daughter enter the store, Mr. Rayl’s craggy old face lit up with a big grin. “About time you came home. Your ma said just this morning that she expected you in a day or so.” He motioned toward the back of the store. “I saved a ton of bookwork for you.”

  About that time, he realized the man who had entered the store was actually with his daughter. He gave B. F. a wary look, obviously sizing him up. “Papa, this is Sue’s cousin, B. F. Windes. He was nice enough to escort me back home.”

  “Thank you, Mistuh Windes. That stage ain’t always the most hospitable way to travel.”

  “Glad to do it, sir.” This was uncomfortable. “I’m gonna walk up the street and get a room at the hotel. I hope to see you before I go back, Miss Rayl.”

  “Don’t be silly. You go get your hotel room and Papa and I will be by to pick you up for supper in about forty-five minutes. Mama will want to meet you, too.” Her father gave her an inquisitive look, and she gave him one right back that made it clear he shouldn’t make any comment on the matter.

  B. F. walked to the hotel, suddenly seeing the situation from an entirely different perspective. He had seen the look in Mr. Rayl’s eyes, and he couldn’t exactly blame him. Here he was almost seven years older than Crocia. He was completely unknown to the family, and what little information they might have had about him was how he had run away from home when he was eight years old—not much of a recommendation!

  He had to acknowledge that he was attracted to Crocia—really the first girl he had been seriously interested in since he lost Jane. He wished he had more time to think about how he should conduct himself this evening, but all he had time for was to quickly trim his beard, wash the road grit from his face, and brush his clothes as best he could. He was still in the midst of his puzzlement when the buckboard arrived at the hotel.

  Elizabeth Rayl was even prettier than her daughter. She was also tall, though not quite so much as Crocia. Her brown hair was still unmarked by any gray, and from what B. F. could tell, there was little indication in her appearance that she was anything other than Crocia’s older sister. It would be very easy to guess that she was still in her late twenties.

  B. F. decided that there was a bit more than seven years difference in the ages of Mister and Missus Rayl. That could be favorable to him, but then again, it might run counter to their plans for their own daughter, depending on what they thought about the appropriateness of their own union.

  He resolved to give them no immediate reason to suspect he was interested at this time in sparking their daughter. Although he would not divulge anything specific related to his financial status, he intended to make sure they understood that he was an industrious man, and it shouldn’t be difficult to deduce that he would become a good provider. There was certainly nothing wrong in at least laying down a little food for thought.

  B. F. had no desire to talk about the war or politics, but it soon became apparent he wouldn’t have that option. For Mr. Rayl, that was the only thing worth talking about. His sons, Robert and William, had both been killed near Springfield, at the Battle of Wilson’s Creek. They were from his first marriage, Elizabeth explained, and the boys had lived with them until they enlisted in the Confederate Army.

  “The war hardly had a chance to get started good—it was August in ’61. My boys were there in the thick of it, shot right beside Colonel Weightman on the hill where they took five cannon from the Yanks. The youngest boy, William, wasn’t kilt outright. He was shot in the thigh. But they didn’t get him to the surgeon for two days. By the time they took his leg, the fever already had him, and he was gone before I even knew he was hurt. It was the blackest day of my life when Junior Yarbrough came home and told me they was both gone.” Mister Rayl stared off in the distance for a few minutes, swallowing repeatedly, composing himself. “Sorry, I ain’t talked about it in a long time.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”

  Rayl turned back around to look B. F. in the eye. “Where were you in the war, Mistuh Windes?”

  There it was. It was pointless to say anything other than the truth, although he realized this man would see little value in his service, compared to that of his sons.

  “Brazil, Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Alabama, Cuba, Bahamas.”

  “What kinda outfit was that?” The man squinted. “You in the Navy?”

  “No sir. I spent the whole war trying to get supplies through the Navy’s blockade.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Usually. Sometimes by wagon train through Mexico to Texas, but most of the time by ship.”

  “They say them blockade runners is what made everything cost so dang much.”

  “Most blockade runners only made a couple of trips before they got commandeered or sunk by the Union Navy. What made things cost so much was losing that many crews and ships and shipments. I lost my own ship toward the end of the war.”

  “What happened?”

  “It looks like the ship captain stole my ship and the cargo and sold it to somebody who paid him more money.”

  “Did you catch up to him?”

  “I tried ’til the war ended. It’s a big ocean. I gave up.”

  Crocia spoke up. “Mister Windes, why do you always wear that gun now that the war is over?”

  B. F. glanced over his shoulder at his Navy Colt hanging on the hall tree by the front door. “I’ve carried a gun since I was about ten years old. Ever since then, there always seemed to be people that wanted to take what I had, or hurt the people I cared about. I don’t plan on letting anyone ever do that again without giving a good account.”

  Mr. Rayl nodded his head. “I been thinking about wearing one myself. The country is full of desperate people these days.” He looked sideways at B. F. “You ever come across any desperate people, Mr. Windes?”

  He looked at the man and his wife—they were both paying full attention. “Sir, I left home when I was eight because my stepmother abused me. I became a barber and earned enough money to travel to California on a wagon train. Along the way, I saw people die almost every week from disease or accidents. When I got to the gold fields, I kept on barbering. Even worked for a doctor for several years.

  “Lots more people died from disease, gunfights, and just plain starved to death.

  I’ve seen people stabbed, shot, hanged, and drowned—some of them were close to me.”

  He hung his head for a second and composed himself. “And lots more besides that. When the war began, I started running the blockade. I’ve worked hard my whole life, whether I had to deal with desperate people or not. People who have known me will tell you I h
old up my end.”

  He looked from Mister Rayl to his wife—at least there was nothing in their expressions that made him feel unworthy. Then he chanced a quick glance at Crocia. Her eyes were shining, and she was smiling at him with a look that seemed to be—what? Pride? Or maybe just relief. At least he hoped it was something like that. He really didn’t want to go into some of the darker things that had happened.

  The conversation at dinner was thankfully in a different direction—all about the mercantile store, the weather, and the prospect of another tough winter because so few crops had been planted that spring. It seemed as though they had heard enough of his background and were only too glad to move to more polite topics.

  B. F. told them he would be leaving on the Eureka Stage the next morning, as he was interested in a piece of land he had seen near Keetsville, and he was ready to get to work building a home and a business. He spoke to the Rayls, but he looked at Crocia when he said, “You have an exceptional daughter. She conducts herself like a real lady at all times. I know you must be very proud of her.” He turned back to face Elizabeth Rayl. “Thank you for your hospitality this evening.”

  Just after noon he was at the stage stop, bag in hand. The dread he felt for the monotony of the coming two-day trip clung to him like the humidity on the August afternoon. He was reflecting on the evening events, trying to figure out whether he had acted appropriately, but with the sudden arrival of Crocia Rayl at the station, those doubts were even less resolved than before. Somehow, she was prettier today than yesterday.

  “I was thinking you would at least come over to say goodbye, Mister Windes.”

  “Why, I thought we’d all said goodbye last evening.”

  “I meant that you might come over to say goodbye to me.”

  The stage pulled into the stop and the station master trotted a fresh team out of the barn lot and began to unhitch the four spent horses. B. F. turned away from the noise and the sudden audience of the disembarking passengers. “I thought you might be busy at your father’s store, and I didn’t want to be a nuisance. Besides, I think he’s suspicious of my motives.”

  “And just for clarification, what are your motives, Mister Windes?”

  “I hope to see you again one day. I meant what I said last evening. In fact, I always mean what I say. Your parents have an exceptional daughter.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, they’re not here right now.”

  Whatever his strategy had been wasn’t really working in the face of her straightforward talk. “Miss Rayl, I’m very interested in continuing this friendship. May I ask if you have the same interest? And . . . may I call you Crocia?”

  The driver’s call from behind them was interruptive. “Board!”

  The questions sort of hung there as they walked toward the open stage door. He threw his bag up to the driver on the roof of the stage and looked inside. Wonderful! The only empty space was on the back-less bench seat in the middle. It promised to be a very long trip. Nothing seemed to be working very well. He stood in the doorway and turned toward her, still with a questioning look on his face.

  The driver repeated himself, “Board.”

  They were out of time and she knew it. “I’ll write to you, B. F. Windes.”

  Forty-Two

  Sundry Illegal And Unchristian Acts

  Keetsville, Missouri 1865

  By the time the stage reached Springfield, B. F. was as miserable as he could ever remember. Rather than endure another eighty miles in similar circumstances, he decided it was time to buy a horse. Sitting in a saddle couldn’t possibly be as bad as bouncing around on the hard, wooden middle seat of a stagecoach for another long day.

  He also took advantage of the opportunity to deposit his British Letter of Credit in the Missouri State Bank and the Bank of Greene County in Springfield. He didn’t remember seeing a bank in Cassville, but even if there was one, he had no desire to have the local citizens know anything about his financial status. He had no faith in the ability of people to keep their mouths shut.

  When he arrived at the Battlefield Livery Stable, he tried to remember all the instructions he had received back in Lexington, Missouri on evaluating horseflesh. Fortunately, he came away with a butternut stallion and good saddle for twenty dollars. Times were exceedingly hard, and the power in a negotiation belonged to the man with cash money.

  The next afternoon he rode into Cassville and found an attorney, by the name of Joseph Cravens, who occupied an office across the main road from the courthouse. Cravens had a nose that turned down at the end, sort of like a hawk’s beak. His ears were almost half as long as his entire head, with large, flapping lower earlobes. And his chin had a big dimple right in the center of it that was so deep, B. F. wondered if the man had trouble keeping it clean. Despite the preference of the day, Cravens was one of the few men in town who did not have a beard, or even a mustache. Perhaps he was proud of his distinctive features and didn’t want to obscure the view in any manner.

  B. F. described the property he had noticed just north of Keetsville and asked Cravens for his assistance. They walked over to the courthouse together, and in less than fifteen minutes, held what appeared to be the Deed of Trust for the eighty acres in question. But there was an adjacent farm of eighty acres also for sale, which B. F. had not noticed, probably because it abutted the first farm on the west side of the property furthest from the road.

  Taxes had not been paid on either property in the last three years. Of course, in 1865 in southwestern Missouri, overdue taxes was the norm rather than the exception, but the unpaid taxes and the fact that the place was unoccupied, were good indications that the land might be for sale. Cravens said he knew the current landowner for both properties, a Widow Mongomery, whose husband had been killed early in the war in Texas, and he would talk to her.

  In the meantime, B. F. wrote down information on some survey markers and rode out to look closer at two other plots of land in the area. The property bordering the road included a house, but it appeared to have been deserted for some time. He was able to open the front door, but the only recent occupants seemed to be yellow jackets, field mice, and a few thousand spiders. It looked as though the fireplace and chimney were in decent shape, the wooden floor was sturdy in most spots, and apparently, the roof didn’t leak very much.

  But there was no pump in the house and no dry sink. And once he was inside, he realized how many places the sunlight showed right through the cracks and gaps in the walls of the house. He remembered some of the living quarters of the California gold miners and reflected that this was a regular palace by comparison. He did some quick guessing and estimated that he could make the place livable for less than five hundred dollars.

  There were four outbuildings—one divided into a tool shed and a chicken house, another used as a stable and hayloft, a root cellar, and finally a two-hole privy. Every time he saw a two-holer, he had to ask himself why in the world anybody would construct a two-hole outhouse. Did someone actually make it a practice to sit there, side-by-side with their family member—perhaps having a conversation about high society—while each completed their daily functions?

  The spring not only bordered the front property but ran along the southern boundary of the second eighty-acre plot as well. Despite it being mid-August, the spring was running at a decent clip. That certainly added value to both places.

  He spent the remainder of the afternoon riding around the area, with the purpose of identifying other properties that might be for sale. Not that he was really interested in anything else, but he thought it a wise strategy to be able to go back to Lawyer Cravens and make him think that he wasn’t entirely sold on the Montgomery land.

  He noticed that almost every home on the south side of Keetsville was either significantly damaged or burned out, with many farms only represented by a standing chimney. It was rare that land was occupied out there, as the property destruction had been particularly bad the closer to Arkansas you got. He decided being
on the north side of the town made the most sense. At least a majority of those farms had people living there.

  The next morning, he told Cravens he was having a hard time making up his mind between three properties, giving him the locations of two other plots west of town.

  Cravens hated doing this kind of work. “I thought you were just interested in Missus Montgomery’s farms. I’ll need to do some search work on the other two.”

  “Did she decide how much she’s asking for that land?”

  “Twenty-five an acre for the front property and twenty for the back. That’s a fine price.”

  B. F. looked at him and shrugged. “Could be, but that sounds like more money than the asking price on land just north of here. I’d be interested in finding out about these other two places though. I have to believe there’s a better deal out there. But if that’s not the case, I looked at some good land at a better price about thirty miles back up the Wire Road just this side of the McDowell community. I may have to head back up there. Anyway, I’m staying over at the Postmaster’s house for another day or so if you find out something.”

  B. F. was confident that his conversation would be repeated verbatim to the Widow Montgomery, perhaps with some lawyerly embellishments to ensure the deal went through in a very few minutes. He doubted that Cravens had too many irons in the fire and probably was very interested in earning a fee for a change.

  Before lunchtime, Cravens had come to see him; and well before supper, he owned a hundred and sixty acres of well-watered prairie land and a cabin for eighteen dollars an acre.

  He was honest enough with himself to admit he had no desire to be a farmer, but the land was simply too good a bargain to let it pass. Over the next few weeks, he resolved to find someone to farm the property, but his next objective was to find a business that he might purchase. In riding back to Keetsville the next morning, he decided to spend the day in what was left of the town to find out what businesses were there, and what was not.

  B. F. stopped by the Durham home before he went into town to let them know that Crocia had been delivered home safe and sound. But when Minnie asked him to come in and visit for a spell, he decided he was wasting a valuable source of information. After he told her and Sue about the trip back to Waynesville, he decided to just barge ahead.