New Madrid

by Robert Tomaino

  “So you decided to marry one of these guys who treated you like that.” He walked to the table and sat back down. The smell of lye stung his eyes.

  “You don’t get it,” Sarah said. “These men don’t see me as a farmer or a rancher. They want one thing from me. You think I don’t feel their eyes on me? Even you, sometimes.” She looked away from him.

  Jack face turned crimson. His eyes darted around the room, looking for something to fixate on. “I’m sorry if I’ve ever stared.”

  “Jesus, Jack. When you first met me, you stared liked you’d never seen a woman before.”

  “Well, there aren’t many women like you, is all.” He squirmed in the wooden chair that had seemingly grown stiffer and more uncomfortable, and tried to avoid eye contact.

  Sarah smiled, but Jack read the sadness on her face.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you,” Jack said. “I’d never make an advance on a married woman.”

  “You’re not like them,” she said. “I know you’re not.”

  The front door banged before Jack could reply. Emma’s footfalls sounded across the wooden floor as she walked into the next room. “I hope our soapmaking isn’t boring you, Jack,” she said in a singsong voice.

  “No, Mrs. Hughes, it’s fine,” Jack said.

  Sarah stood. She ran her hands down her dress, unsuccessfully trying to straighten the creases. “I should be going, anyway. Emma, thank you for having me over. Jack.” She nodded to him before slipping out. Jack watched her go.

  “Be careful,” Emma said.

  Jack weighed her words. “Be careful of what?”

  “Be careful,” Emma said in a kind, but stern voice. “My husband and I had our issues, too. All couples do.”

  “She doesn’t love him.”

  “That’s not for you to say, now, is it?”

  “Do you disagree?”

  “Oh, Jack.” Emma’s voice sounded as if she were addressing a young child. “When is it ever about love? For anyone?”

  Jack stoic expression faltered. “That’s awful cynical. You didn’t love your husband?”

  “Of course, I did,” Emma said, a soft smile edging onto her face. “But love is about connection. And that connection is stronger with some people than with others. Not everyone gets to be with the person with the strongest connection to them.” The older woman tapped her finger to her lips. “Hmm. You need a good woman. What about Hannah Brown?”

  “The waitress at Kendall’s?”

  “Why not? She’s beautiful. She’ll keep you warm at night.”

  “Not everyone cares about being warm at night.” Jack walked across the room, but paused. He second-guessed the offer for a moment, but let it go.

  “You need to have some fun.” Emma’s eyes danced mischievously.

  “Thank you for the advice, Mrs. Hughes.” He continued to the front door.

  “Just think about it.” Emma raised her voice to reach Jack. “Hannah is a nice young woman.”

  “Thank you, Emma,” Jack said, gently closing the front door behind him.

  Jack reached the Duncan farm early the next morning. George’s Appaloosa, Stormy, was out front, but Sarah’s speckled mare was not. A chestnut quarter horse stood quietly beside George’s horse.

  “The doctor is in,” Jack muttered to himself as he dismounted. He rapped on the door.

  “C’mon in,” George yelled. Jack entered to find Doc Waters and George in conversation.

  The main room of the cabin was small. Several needlepoint decorations hung on the walls. A tin can with flowers adorned the kitchen table. Clothes were strewn about the unswept floor. Jack knew Sarah didn’t care for cleaning and had, apparently, stopped altogether once Abbie had disappeared.

  Doc Waters smiled. “Jack, good to see you.”

  “Where’s Sarah?” Jack asked.

  Doc Waters nodded. “She’s got nervous exhaustion.”

  Jack glanced through the doorway to double-check that her horse wasn’t there. “Nervous exhaustion?”

  “Yeah, usually a big-city problem, where the folks live too fast. We’ve all got this energy in us, and Sarah’s got too much of the nervous variety. Lotta women do. If you’ve got too much nervous energy, it builds up and causes all sorts of problems—headaches, fatigue, depression, the runs. You name it.”

  “Nervous energy. You’re serious?”

  “It’s a French theory,” Doc Waters said. “They discovered it in Paris.”

  “We’re not in Paris, Doc. We’re in New Madrid.”

  George frowned. “All right, let it go. Damn it, Jack, do you have to make everything an argument?” His hands shook as he ran them through his hair.

  “Sorry,” Jack said. His entire body tensed. Everywhere he went nowadays, it seemed as if he were itching for an argument. “I’m trying to find Abbie.”

  “It seems like all you do is go around town and talk to people,” George said.

  “You try running the town,” Jack said. George looked away from the scrutiny, and Jack sighed. “Not easy is all I’m saying. I’ve got the militia out looking right now.”

  Doc Waters laughed. “Those three clowns? All they’ll find is a whiskey bottle and a card game.”

  “We work with what we’ve got,” Jack said. “This isn’t St. Louis.” He looked out the door again. “You still haven’t told me where Sarah is.”

  “Mrs. Duncan is resting,” Doc Waters said. “Her health is the concern here. She needs proper bedrest and fluids.”

  On the chair to the side of the two men was a small doll. The doll was a girl, with straw-like hair and a dirty, faded dress that may have been white at one time. Jack had not noticed the toy when he entered. “She’s not here. Dragonfly’s gone.”

  “What?” George ran to the door.

  “The poor woman needs bedrest,” Doc Waters repeated. “I fear she might descend into hysteria without therapy.”

  Jack ignored the doctor and followed George onto the porch.

  “Shoot. I gotta go find her.” George couldn’t hide the worry from his voice.

  “Maybe let her be for a minute,” Jack said, but George was already halfway to the barn to grab his saddle.

  George stopped, spinning round. “No, Jack. You don’t know her. There’s no telling what is going on with that woman. It’s the worst thing about her.” He disappeared into the barn.

  Doc Waters joined Jack at the doorway. Jack shook his head. “I think it’s her best quality.”

  Doc Waters choked out a laugh.

  “You all right?” Jack asked.

  “Nothing, nothing,” Dr. Waters said. “It’s just I consider it your best quality as well.”

  Jack laughed. “I guess, Doc. Either way, he’s right. I gotta find their girl.” He walked to his horse, unhitched the reins, and pulled himself up into the saddle.

  He turned his horse from the post and looked back at the doctor. “Oh, and Doc? When you see her next, best not to diagnose her with hysteria, if you know what’s good for you.”

  As he neared town, gunshots rang out from the river. The popping and cracking, amplified by the mighty Mississippi, shattered the stillness of the morning air. Jack dug his heels into his horse and galloped toward the river.

  He reined up by the docks amid shouts and cries, some from the water and some from the land. Three ships navigated the river—a New Madrid cutter, a keelboat he did not recognize, and a dilapidated, but still seaworthy, flatboat that looked familiar.

  Jack jumped down from his horse and led the horse behind some crates between the water’s edge and the docks. He pulled his rifle from the saddlebag. The acrid odor of gunpowder hovered in the air.

  The river was to his right. In front of him, fifty yards or so, were three long wooden piers stretched out into the water. A large warehouse stood across from the docks on the bank. Next to the warehouse, and closer to Jack, was the custom house. Constructed mainly of wooden planks, the custom house was the office of the Revenue-Marines. These men ser
ved to collect tariffs and curtail the rampant smuggling along the river.

  August Miller peeked out from behind the corner of the custom house. One of the revenue marines was with him. A couple shots rang out, spraying wood shrapnel over August and the marine.

  The shots came from the cutter boat that drifted aimlessly in the river, the sail from its single, central mast flapping in the wind. The small boat was built for speed, and its low draft allowed the craft to adroitly navigate the river, whether levying tariffs or pursuing bandits or smugglers.

  Three men scrambled aboard the deck of the cutter boat. They did not appear to be revenue marines. A body floated alongside the ship, and another man lay sprawled on the foredeck.

  The keelboat drifted near the docks. The poles that propelled the boat up and down the river lay scattered about the deck. A pair of men huddled behind some crates near the back of the boat.

  A pair of men were also on the flatboat. Jack recognized one as Randolph Mason, the youngest brother of the Mason Gang. The eldest brother, Daniel, was an ex-lawman. The gang terrorized the surroundings of New Madrid. They harassed travelers on the King’s Highway running to the north and often raided ships on the river.

  The keelboat was a small cargo boat. The cutter marines had pulled alongside to collect the tariff. Jack assumed at some point the Mason gang, on their dilapidated flatboat, must have intervened after the tariff, the cargo, or both.

  “Damn it,” Jack said under his breath. At the prow of the cutter, one member of the Mason gang blasted the docks with a rifle, forcing August and the marine down. Jack steadied his rifle, aimed, and fired. The man tumbled backward in a crumpled heap. Moments later, a shot rang out, splintering the crates in front of Jack, the wood creaking as it flew apart.

  Jack crawled to his right, nearer to the edge of the dock. A couple of men on the cutter boat hustled about while, on the flatboat, two more members of the Mason gang gestured in his direction.

  August stood from his vantage point and fired at the cutter. The men’s attention shifted back to the boathouse. Jack immediately brought up his rifle. The bullet from Jack’s second shot struck one of the men on the flatboat. He toppled backward with a shriek of pain.

  A cry arose from the cutter as one of the men stood hunched over, grabbing his shoulder. A whoop of exhortation sounded from August, who nodded at Jack, a giant smile plastered on his face. The other man on the cutter dropped the bag he was carrying and helped the injured man back into the flatboat. As soon as the men scurried aboard, they pushed off with long poles into the river.

  Jack stood as the flatboat came about and receded down the river. August ran down the dock, stopping at the end to take a couple of potshots with a flintlock pistol.

  “Enough, August,” Jack said. He then repeated with a stronger inflection, “Enough!”

  August walked over. “Are you just going to let them go?”

  “Where are the revenue marines?”

  A young marine approached whom Jack recognized as William Harley.

  “They killed Davey Crouper, and Billy is hurt,” William said, his words rushed as he struggled to control his breathing.

  “Where’s Billy?” Jack asked.

  “On the boat,” the young marine said, gesturing to the cutter ship. “Doc’s already with him. Came when he heard the shots.”

  “Who’s Davey?” Jack turned to August.

  “New recruit. Arrived yesterday from St. Louis.”

  “Where are the other two marines?”

  “Not their shift,” William said with a slight hesitation. “It was only one boat anyway.”

  “Well, go fish him out of the river. Don’t just leave him there.”

  “Yes, sir!” William said and hustled off.

  “Are you going to help him?” Jack asked August.

  “Yeah, I’m going.” He turned to follow William. “Hey, just one thing. How many shots you fire?”

  “Who cares?” Jack said.

  “Just curious.”

  “I didn’t count.”

  “Two shots, Mr. Miller,” said Elijah Prescott. He had approached from behind Jack. “One of the finest displays of marksmanship I’ve ever seen.”

  August looked back and forth between the two men, a small smirk fading from his face. “I’ll go help the boy.” He sauntered toward the river.

  “I do declare, Jack. Your skill with a firearm is almost preternatural.”

  “I just point and pull the trigger.”

  “Thank you!” The cry carried from the river. The keelboat had returned. The captain waved his gratitude to Jack.

  “You’re welcome. Just tie her up there, and the revenue marines will be with you as soon as they get a chance.” Down the street, John and Wyatt hustled to the docks. Jack fought down the irritation that they didn’t arrive until after the shooting had stopped.

  “Help them out,” Jack told the men as they approached.

  “Jack, we’re sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just take care of them.”

  Prescott nodded to the two men, who quickly departed. “I must admit; you have a strange leadership style.”

  “They aren’t my men.”

  William ran toward them. Water dripped down his face and clothes. “Jack! We got him.”

  “All right,” Jack said. “Take him to the undertaker.”

  William ignored the water, causing his eyelids to continually blink. “I’ve got his stuff for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Well, yeah,” William said. He ran a hand over his face. “You’ve got to write a letter and send it to his next of kin.”

  “Why me? I’m not in the cutter service.”

  William glanced briefly at the preacher. The dripping water had slowed, and the young man shifted uncomfortably. “I just assumed, I mean, if not you, then who, Jack?”

  Jack sighed. “Leave his stuff at my office. I’ll take care of it.”

  William’s face lit up. “Yes, sir.” He took off toward the river.

  “As I mentioned, you deal with your men in a strange manner,” Prescott said.

  “I already told you. They aren’t my men. They work for the U.S. Treasury.”

  “And where is the closest U.S. Treasury office? Do you see one?” Prescott gestured mockingly around the vicinity. “They are your men and, more than that, they are devoted to you.”

  Jack said nothing. He looked toward the river where William and August conversed.

  “They seem like stalwart, God-fearing men,” Prescott said.

  “There are times, Reverend Prescott, when I think you actually care about people.”

  “And there are times, Jack, when I actually think that you don’t.”

  The two men stood facing each other. Shouts came from the marines by the water, and a breeze lilted across the river. A hawk spun through the air high above them. It dove, bringing up a small brown animal that struggled in its grasp, partially slipping away from its talons.

  “I should help them with the body,” Jack said, but he didn’t move.

  A few heartbeats passed. Prescott’s usually smiling visage was stone-faced. “Yes, well, I should return to town. I am meeting with Mr. Broussard later at the saloon. You are welcome to join us.” Prescott walked off without a look backward.

  “Do you have something to say, William?” Jack asked as he heard an odd shuffling behind him.

  The young man, still damp, stood quietly to the side. “Um, I heard what you and the preacher said at the end about caring about people.”

  “Yes, William.”

  “I think you’re both wrong.” He struggled with the words, but his voice was firm. Jack turned toward him in surprise. “It’s easy to tell who a good man is and who isn’t. I hope you don’t forget that.” William blinked and looked away from Jack as his face colored red. “I should go.” He hurried off toward the dock house.

  The hawk had circled back, wheeling overhead in a large, circular arc. “Still hungry?” Jac
k mumbled. He followed William toward the docks.

  CHAPTER 5

  Jack placed the pen down on his desk. He folded the letter to the dead marine’s family and sealed it in the envelope. He tapped the envelope on the desktop, wondering if his words would bring any solace or peace to the family.

  He gathered up his gun and hat and headed out to the post office. He rounded the corner a block down from the jailhouse and came across Broussard and the preacher standing outside the blacksmith’s shop. When they saw him, they parted to give him room to join their conversation. As they moved aside, Mary Fischer became visible. She was standing with arms crossed in the doorway.

  “You are more than welcome to come inside.” Mary grinned, her white teeth contrasting with her dark skin. From what he’d been told, Jack knew her presence in town had caused a commotion when she arrived. A freed slave was rare, especially one who had bought her own freedom. She came with blacksmith skills that put most men to shame, and could arm wrestle most of the men in town to submission. She was the only blacksmith for almost a hundred miles, and people traveled long distances to have her repair wagons and farm equipment, or to shoe horses.

  “I have those horseshoes almost ready for you, Pierre,” Mary said to the Frenchman. “I got caught up making the plow blades for the Jackson farm, but they’re nearly done. Come take a look. She disappeared within her shop.

  The men entered the shop. On the wall, various tools hung in a row – hammers, sledgehammers, punches, drifts, and a variety of chisels and tongs. Bags of charcoal were piled atop each other underneath the tools. A long, wooden counter ran across the far end with more tools scattered about. A vice was attached to the end of the counter. Barrels of different sizes stood apparently at random throughout the shop. The windows, one on either side wall, were shuttered and covered by dark cloths to prevent sunlight from obscuring the glowing, heated metal. Near the center of the room toward the back, placed atop a pile of bricks was the anvil. Behind it was the forge, an open brick fireplace. Flames danced casting an eerie glow on the anvil. The heat from the forge enveloped them as they entered and hung in the air, almost as if everyone could feel it.