New Madrid

by Robert Tomaino

  Prescott eyes drifted back and forth between the two men. He addressed Jack. “Mr. Broussard has been regaling me with tales of New Orleans. The composition of your little town is quite the amalgam of cultures. Creole, German, Spanish, English. I find it curious.”

  Broussard shrugged. “New Madrid isn’t like other places.” He shook his glass and tried to catch the barmaid’s eye.

  Prescott raised an eyebrow toward Jack.

  “You have to know how the town was founded.”

  “Do enlighten me, Mr. Ellard.”

  Jack thought he caught a hint of sarcasm in Prescott’s tone, but the preacher’s half-lidded eyes revealed nothing. “Well, this was originally French and Spanish territory,” Jack said.

  “Hence the name, I presume.”

  “It was founded by George Morgan,” Jack said. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Prescott had no interest in the town’s origins. “He originally gained the land through an Indian transfer, but the United States government refused to approve it.”

  “Well, that seems in line with how our government operates,” said Prescott. August laughed, and Broussard nodded his head.

  “He applied for a land grant from the Spanish governor of Louisiana. Was granted the land and set up here.” Jack shrugged. “He built the town.”

  “The town does not appear to be well-planned out,” Prescott said disdainfully.

  “The community was planned,” Broussard said. “Meticulously. There was a grid formation and neighborhoods and everything.”

  “What happened?” Prescott asked. “It seems the town’s evolution has stagnated.”

  Jack sighed. “There was a U.S. army officer who commanded the district that followed the Mississippi River in these parts. He went to the Spanish governor and cut a deal.”

  Broussard shrugged. “They worked to discredit Morgan and got the townsfolk riled up. Before long, Morgan was forced out and returned East. Eventually, these parts were sold to the United States.”

  “Even with Morgan gone, the land is fertile, oh boy,” Broussard said. “The mighty Mississippi makes it great for trade. We have the busiest port on the river.”

  “And prices to match,” Prescott said. “The extravagant costs of basic necessities in New Madrid is … disconcerting.”

  Broussard’s smile disappeared. “People pay what they can. Man’s got to make a living.”

  “I assume the townsfolk pay the same inflated costs as travelers,” Prescott added. “Gouging travelers is most unseemly.”

  Silence reigned at the table. The men of New Madrid exchanged uncomfortable glances.

  “Actually, the town was planned out,” Jack said before Broussard could respond to Prescott. “Morgan designed the town like a grid. He planned where the buildings would go, separated everything into different ethnic communities, and where the different churches would be.”

  “Churches?” Prescott’s eyes narrowed. “I believe I saw a dilapidated church as I traversed the town. But only one.”

  “That’s it,” Broussard said. “There were plans for several churches, but they were never built.”

  “Quite optimistic, I’d gather,” said Prescott. “Your fledgling metropolis hardly merits multiple churches.”

  “They were for other faiths,” Jack said. “Morgan wanted the town to welcome all peoples and faiths.”

  “Prevarication of the highest order,” Prescott said. His face crinkled in disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Morgan wanted a town that accepted any religion,” Jack said.

  Prescott shook his head. “Unbelievable. I’d like to converse with this Mr. Morgan, then.”

  “Gone,” August said. “That greedy Spanish governor drove him out.” He spat the words out. When the other men simply stared at him, he grabbed his whiskey and shot it back.

  “Perhaps the Spanish saw the profanity in this town’s creation.”

  “We need the Spanish back,” Broussard muttered. The three other men stared at him. “Don’t look at me like that. Things were better with the Spanish. You know it’s true,” he added when no one acknowledged him.

  “Catholicism has a strong hold in the Spanish,” Prescott said softly. “A bulwark against the rising Protestant heresy ravaging Europe.” His exaggerated enunciation returned. “Perhaps, the Spanish are the answer.”

  “Really?” August asked hesitantly. “I fight for America. Not the Spanish.” His words were measured.

  “It’s not about country, Mr. Miller,” said Prescott. “It’s about God. About right and wrong. The West is a frontier, they tell me.” He waved his hand dismissively. “All I see is lawlessness and sin and debauchery. America has failed to quell this abomination of spirit and mind.”

  “We’re free here,” Broussard said. He shifted in his chair, but his expression had hardened. “Are they free on the coast, or in France or Spain?”

  “Free?” Prescott gave Broussard an amused grin. “People need structure and guidance. Otherwise, the human spirit stumbles toward decadence and immorality.”

  Jack ran his finger around the rim of his whiskey glass. He took it and gulped the harsh liquor in one swallow. “Maybe. Or maybe people in power promise freedom because they think people will fail. But when they start to succeed, they shut it down.” Jack slammed the glass onto the table. The three men jumped.

  Prescott shook his head. “Unnecessary theatrics, Sheriff. I fear I have been called to this town just in time. An immorality has seeped from the wood and dust into the hearts and souls of the people here. I hope that I am not too late.”

  “That’s a fairly bold statement for someone who has been here one day,” Jack said.

  “Nonsense,” Prescott said. “I am only suggesting that I can provide guidance and advice.”

  “Just what kind of guidance can you provide?” Jack asked.

  “I’m offering my wisdom and experience to the town of New Madrid,” Prescott said. “But as the Bible says, ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child.’ ”

  Jack spun the glass in his hands, catching it as it teetered. “Speaking of children, if you can help us find the Duncan girl, we’d much appreciate it,” Jack said. “That is why you’re here?”

  Broussard downed his whiskey, coughing as the bitter liquid hit his throat. “I need another.” He shoved his chair back and lurched toward the bar. August Miller sipped his drink, small wrinkles appearing around his eyes as he watched Jack and Prescott.

  “Have you ascertained whether the girl has fallen prey to dark magics?”

  “Dark magics?” August’s face crinkled up like an accordion.

  “Witchcraft, my dear man.” Prescott frowned at the militiaman. “Like the pagan rituals that plague these untamed lands. Do you fear that witchcraft is involved in the girl’s disappearance?”

  August looked to Jack.

  “No,” Jack said.

  “Have you taken steps to ferret out any malevolent souls?” Prescott voice rose and the words poured forth. “Have you properly investigated this town and its inhabitants?”

  “I’m mostly concerned with finding a lost girl and keeping this town from falling apart,” Jack said. “If you can help find the girl, that would be most appreciated.”

  Prescott stood, and his wooden chair screeched along the floorboards. “I will find this poor, lost soul, I assure you of that. And I will offer this town the full complement of my skills and expertise. I am at your service.”

  Jack thought the preacher would bow, but the man simply left the bar, slicing through the crowded establishment with an unnatural grace.

  “He uses a lot of big words,” August said. “Don’t rightly know what he’s saying half the time. You?”

  “I understand him just fine,” Jack said. “That’s why I’m worried.”

  Jack left the saloon, the batwing door swinging slowly in his wake. Muffled shouts from around the building’s corner greeted him as stepped onto the porch. A woman’s angry, but controlled, voice rose in annoya
nce.

  He hurried around the corner and stopped. Sarah faced Anselmo, the Mexican farmhand who worked for the widow, Emma Hughes. Her face was red, but her voice firm in its reprimand.

  “Sarah, is everything all right?”

  Sarah and Anselmo both turned. Anselmo gulped and mumbled something before hurrying off in the opposite direction. The intensity drained from Sarah’s face and body. “Jack,” she said with mild exasperation. “I’m fine.”

  Jack bit his tongue. “You didn’t look fine.”

  “It was nothing. Emma needed Anselmo for something. That’s all. You know how he is.”

  Lines of worry spread across Jack’s face. “Are you sure?”

  “Jack.” Sarah snapped, but her face sagged a bit afterward. “I’m fine,” she said softly. She spun the small, turquoise teardrop ring on her left hand.

  “We’ll find her,” Jack said and tried to sound more reassuring than he felt. “I don’t know how or when, but we’ll find her.”

  Sarah’s face softened with a small smile. Her expression resembled a parent listening to a young child’s wholesome prattling, and remembering when they once held such innocence. The brief flicker of comfort passed, and her face scrunched up again.

  “Please don’t make promises you can’t keep.” When he opened his mouth to protest, she held up her hands. “Thank you. But no one knows what is coming.”

  “No one?” Jack stared after Anselmo, who had become a retreating black speck down the street. He held his hand above his eyes to shield the midday sun. “Anselmo was the last person to see Abbie before she disappeared, wasn’t he?”

  Sarah stiffened. “You’ve already talked to him. Please leave him be.” She tugged on the trim of her calico dress, but wouldn’t look at Jack.

  “Are you concerned he did something?”

  “No. I don’t think he took her.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “I told you. Widow Hughes needed him, and he’d rather be drinking at Kendall’s.” Sarah arched her eyebrows. “Like just about every man in this town.”

  “Fine,” Jack said without enthusiasm or conviction. “I may swing by the Hughes place tomorrow to talk to him again.”

  “You should worry about Prescott, not Anselmo. I don’t like him.”

  “I understand,” Jack said, pleased that Sarah had formed the same opinion of the itinerant preacher as he had. “I’m not sure that Elijah Prescott is here to help anyone.”

  “How do you know that?” Sarah asked.

  “I know men like Prescott,” Jack said. “Whatever he’s driven by, it’s not a desire to help. I’m concerned that George is placing a lot of hope in him.”

  “I know,” Sarah said. “But what can I do about that?”

  Jack could still taste the whiskey in his throat and hear the preacher’s insincere promises to find Abbie. But the preacher’s eyes were cold and his words rang hollow to Jack. There was good reason to doubt men who pushed witch trials, who condemned people on what usually amounted to hearsay and speculation. He glanced back at the saloon. “He’s ready to anoint the man town priest and let him move right into the church.”

  Sarah sighed. “George takes his faith seriously. The town has been without a priest since Father Pierre died. He could actually use that structure in his life.”

  “I doubt Prescott is the answer to his prayers.”

  “Maybe not, but George is…” she paused looking away from Jack. “Complicated. A priest and a weekly sermon would probably do him good.”

  Jack ground his teeth together. “George’s problems aren’t a lack of a priest. It’s a lack of self-control. I don’t understand why you put up with him.”

  “Have you ever been married, Jack?”

  “I’m not the kind of man who would be good in a marriage,” Jack said. His eyes drifted away from her, and his thoughts drifted further still.

  “Why would you say that?”

  Jack shrugged. “I’m in my forties. A broken-down sheriff. There are better men to pick as a husband.”

  “The fact that you’re kind, generous, and do the right thing doesn’t matter?” Sarah asked with a hint of annoyance in her voice. “And don’t tell me there are a lot of men like that. Not out here.”

  “Is that why you married George?”

  “I don’t want to talk about my relationship with my husband.”

  “I know, it’s just—”

  “Enough,” Sarah snapped. She tightened her bonnet and gathered her skirts. “I’ve got to go.”

  Sarah walked down the street, puffs of dirt flaring up in her wake. Jack cursed under his breath and went back into the saloon.

  CHAPTER 3

  Later that afternoon, August burst into the sheriff’s office. His face was a faded red from exertion, and he gasped as he tried to speak.

  “You’d … you’d better get to the docks.” He smiled broadly despite his tiredness.

  Jack grimaced. “This town never slows down.” He pushed himself out of the chair and grabbed his hat and his holster and followed August out of the door.

  “What is it?” Jack asked as he caught up to August.

  “The dockworkers.”

  “Damn it.” Jack couldn’t hide the exasperation from his voice. “If those drunks want to fight, I’d just as soon let them.” He paused and looked at August. “Are they bothering townsfolk?”

  “No,” August said, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s just someone got them riled up.”

  “Prescott?”

  “Nope,” August said, smiling again. “It’s Sarah.”

  “What?” Jack said. “What is she doing down by the docks?”

  August shrugged. Jack increased his pace.

  Angry shouts and jeers reached Jack’s ears before he arrived at the docks. A group of mostly men had formed a circle near one of the piers. The stood yelling back and forth, though most of the men were obscured by the barrels and crates that lined the dock. As he came closer, Jack realized that Sarah, hands on her hips and glowering at everyone, stood near the middle of the crowd.

  Jack’s heart quickened when he saw Sarah. The motley assortment of men parted like a river rushing against an island. As he approached, one of the dockworkers took a swing at another man. The second man, whom Jack recognized as a keelboat captain, ducked and danced backward. A tremendous roar arose from the men as they surrounded the combatants.

  Jack hesitated, debating whether to allow the fight or intervene. He was reluctant to get involved. These men had their own code, but most were already drunk, and the docks were a simmering powder keg, always on the verge of exploding into violence.

  The dockhand in the fight, Harrison Tucker, was usually the lead instigator of these men. Jack had had several run-ins with him, usually due to the man’s alcoholism and unrepentant belligerence. The other combatant’s name was Cavanaugh. The Irishman most likely had arrived in town with a load of whiskey from Kentucky in his keelboat.

  Harrison feinted in one direction and unleashed a powerful punch. Cavanaugh knocked the fist aside with a grunt. He swung at the dockworker, missing wildly.

  Harrison pressed his attack. Cavanaugh attempted to dance away. Harrison jabbed several times and threw a couple of uppercuts. The Irishman deflected the blows with his arms as best he could. He threw a couple of counterpunches at Harrison, but the dockworker pressed him backward. Harrison jabbed a couple of times. Then he unloaded a savage cross that caught the other man on the right cheek.

  A staggered Cavanaugh flailed a couple of times. He moved disjointedly inside the circle of men after taking the powerful blow. Harrison adroitly stepped aside, and Cavanaugh stumbled forward a couple of steps. Harrison unleashed an uppercut. He twisted his fist on the follow-through, catching Cavanaugh on the left side of his jaw. The captain crumpled to the ground.

  Jack stepped between the two men. “Enough!” He held out his hands in either direction.

  Cavanaugh moaned as he pushed himself off the ground. Ha
rrison’s eyes narrowed as he stood straighter. His hands remained balled into fists. “This is none of yer business, Sheriff.”

  Jack regarded the captain’s struggle to rise. Sarah rushed over and helped the man stand. “It appears this business is settled.”

  “Says you.” Harrison eyed Jack warily.

  “It’s over,” Jack said with more emphasis. “Why don’t you get to Kendall’s? Someone will buy you a drink.” He glanced down at Cavanaugh.

  Harrison laughed. He looked around at the other dockworkers. “Yeah. One of you yellowbellies gonna buy me a whiskey?”

  “The only yellowbelly here is you,” Sarah said, spitting the words out with contempt. Her eye blazed in challenge. “You’re twice his size.”

  “You gotta a tongue on you, missy,” Harrison said. He leered at her in way that she was used to. Jack, however, was not.

  “You want to go another round?” Jack asked. His words lost their anger, carrying a softer, yet somehow sharper tone. “With me?”

  Harrison licked his lips. “You serious, Jack? I’ll never raise a gun against you. No way.” He shook his head with deliberation and held up his fists. “But I will drop you like a sack o’ barley.”

  “No more fighting,” Sarah said. “I’m trying to find my daughter.” She looked to Jack. “I was talking to Captain Cavanaugh. Hoping he’d heard or seen something, when this thing interrupted.” She gestured with disgust at Harrison.

  “Harrison, get out of here. All of you. Get a drink at Kendall’s.” The men started to shuffle off, except for Harrison. Jack stood his ground. “Unless you want to help us look for her daughter?”

  Harrison’s eyes flicked to Sarah. He licked his lips. “Whiskey be good right now, I think. This town got some big problems in it.”

  “What does that mean?” Jack asked.

  “Preacher Prescott says we’re cursed,” Harrison said. “The river is rising, the crops are bad this year. All of it. He’s gonna fix it.” He sneered at Cavanaugh. “Plus, too many of these foreign folks coming ’round, too.”