New Madrid
Page 14
Jack nodded. His face burned, not from the heat of the forge, but because he knew she was right.
“And another thing. Try and pick your fights better.” A bitter laugh escaped her mouth. “Taking on the best fighter in town would be,” she shook her head, “like taking you on in a gunfight.”
Jack frowned.
“Just be smarter, is all I’m saying. I had to be smarter and stronger than most everyone I met to get and survive here. I didn’t have the luxury of learning as I go.”
“Any other advice?” Jack asked, wincing as he pressed his finger where Tucker landed a blow. Her words rang true, and stung as much as his bruised face.
Mary placed the rifle on the counter. She wiped her arm across her brow before answering. “Stop holding back.”
“What does that mean?” Exasperation crept into his voice. He considered it a plague that everyone talked so vaguely.
“Stop holding back.” Mary repeated the words with force. “If not for yourself, then for Sarah.” Her voice dropped, but frustration lined her face. “Or for me.”
“For you?” Jack asked. “I don’t understand.”
“What I mean is…” Mary’s voice rose in annoyance. She stopped and took a deep breath. “You have a voice where other people do not. Use it. Stop fighting with fists when you can use words. Use the power of your station.” She pulled a cloth from her apron and dabbed at the blood on Jack’s lips. “And if you insist on dying standing up, just don’t be stupid about it.”
Jack took the cloth from Mary and held it against his lips. “Thanks?” he mumbled through the fabric and his hand.
Mary tried to hide the smile that snuck onto her face. “To be fair, I’d prefer, if you can manage it, to not have you die at all.”
CHAPTER 14
The next day, townsfolk spilled out of the church doors and lined up against the windows. They milled about outside the church, muttering and whispering amongst themselves as Jack approached.
He pushed through into the building. He’d barely made it to the trial on time—his last errand had taken longer than he thought.
Elijah Prescott sat at one table. He remained aloof and assured as he watched people hustle about. Harrison Tucker sat next to him. Sarah, stone-faced, was at the other table. Alone. Jack pushed through the crowd.
He passed George in the front pew. The man had the decency to looked abashed and miserable. He called out to Jack, who ignored him.
As Jack took in the room, he realized that this was a hard, cold town, from the dockworkers to the farmers to the traders and the other frontiersmen. Even the women carried an edge. The encroaching Mississippi had driven these proud people backward in terms of survival, and threatened to do so again. The land speculation had left them bitter and divided. He feared the room was already against Sarah.
“Where have you been?” Sarah asked when he sat down next to her.
“I had to see Broussard and some of the others.” He paused, taken aback by the fear and frustration haunting her expression. So uncommon were these emotions on her stoic face that his whole body ached. “It’ll be all right. I’ve taken precautions.”
“What do you mean?”
“This trial is a sham. And we’re ready for afterward.”
“Who’s we?” Sarah asked. Hope bloomed in her eyes.
Before Jack could answer, Prescott stood up and strode to the front of the pews. He spread his arms wide. “Good people of New Madrid, thank you for coming today. Although these are dark proceedings, they will hopefully lead to more prosperous times for your town. I am a man of expedience and shun ostentatious oration. As such, I call Emma Hughes as the first witness.”
The conversation in the room died down, and Jack looked up to see Emma slowly making her way to the front of the church. She stopped before the tables and wobbled slightly, but grabbed ahold of the lectern. She leaned against the tall stand and took a deep breath. Her head was bandaged, and she appeared more like a wounded soldier than a farmer’s widow.
“Mrs. Hughes.” Prescott’s voice thundered through the small room. “Are you here to give testimony as to the guilt of Sarah Duncan?”
“Yes, I am,” Emma said, the words squeaked out.
“She is!” Prescott cried with enthusiasm. He spun to face the congregation, pointing at Emma with his long, black-clad arm. “And do you swear to not bear false witness and to testify with a true heart?”
“I do.”
“She does.” Prescott’s voice rose to the rafters. He paused, his head scanning the assembled crowd. He did not turn to face Emma. “Tell us, Mrs. Hughes, in your own words, what depravations or misdeeds have you witnessed by the heart or hands of Sarah Duncan.”
“She withered my crops.”
Gasps and shouts erupted from the assembly. People banged on the floor and the backs of the pews. Prescott quieted the townsfolk with a gesture.
“I found her by my crops, speaking in a strange tongue before my tomatoes took with the blight.” The crowd again roared in shock and displeasure.
Sarah’s muscles tense throughout her body. Words escaped her lips in a hushed whisper. “That is not true.” Only Jack could hear her, but anyone who had looked would have seen the shock registered across her face as Emma spoke.
Jack slammed his fists on the table. “Enough!” he shouted until the room quieted. “Is there proof of this?” he asked with gentleness.
“No,” Emma said, barely above a whisper. She refused to look at either of them.
The townsfolk muttered amongst themselves. Several shouted in support of Sarah, but the room’s response was muted compared to Emma’s earlier statement.
“Mrs. Hughes,” Prescott said, and Jack swore the preacher’s eyes twinkled in anticipation. “Have you witnessed anything else?”
“Not witnessed,” Emma said, and her voice gained strength. “But Sarah told me that she had her own daughter kidnapped.”
The room quieted in shock and disbelief, and then exploded in a torrent of shouts and screams of anger. George wailed, banging his head against the back of the pew in front of him.
Jack moved to stand, but Sarah placed her hand on his shoulder. “It’s true. I had to tell someone.”
“But they’ll think you did it for the wrong reasons.”
“Please, let it go. It’ll be harder to explain. And the railroad operates in secrecy, otherwise it wouldn’t work.”
“Sarah,” Jack said, his voice faltered. He felt as if the trial was already lost.
Prescott motioned with his hands, and the crowd quieted. Those who had left their seats sat down again. A soft murmur of excitement bounced around the room. In the back, a young child bawled, only to be quieted by a reproaching parent.
“You may stand down, Mrs. Hughes,” Prescott said. Emma made her way back to her seat. Prescott gave her a moment, and then cleared his throat. “I call forth Deputy August Miller.”
August had abandoned his frayed trousers and wrinkled shirt for a brown wool suit. The old, faded suit gave him a haggard appearance. He reached the lectern and shifted back and forth, repeatedly looking around the room as if searching for a safe place to focus his eyes.
Prescott walked before the lectern. He spoke to August with an austere tone. “Are you here to give testimony as to the character of Sarah Duncan?”
“I am,” August said, but he also refused to make eye contact with Sarah or Jack.
Prescott did not repeat August’s answer as he had with Emma. “And do you swear to not bear false witness and to testify with a true heart?”
“I do,” August said. He gripped the lectern tightly and kept his eyes locked on the preacher.
“Tell us what you witnessed.”
“Well, she fires a gun better than most men.” August nodded emphatically, a small smirk on his face.
Snickers and laughter arose from the room. But some men shouted condemnation, and others, both men and women, nodded their heads.
Jack heard someone, pe
rhaps Ethel Jones, comment that Sarah did not “carry herself like a lady.”
“God damn it, August,” Jack yelled, the words springing from his mouth before he remembered where he was. August flinched at the lectern, but would not turn to face Jack.
“Please, let’s maintain some decorum and propriety.” Prescott regarded Jack coldly. He turned to August. “You found her skills preternatural?”
“If that means unnatural, then yes.”
“August Miller is not the judge of what’s natural is this world,” Jack said.
“Do you have a question?” Prescott said slowly, the words coming out in a hiss.
Jack stood and faced August. “Have you ever seen or known Sarah to perform any kind of magic?”
August frowned. “Well, after I had that argument with her the other day, she threatened me. You heard her. You were there.”
“So what?” Jack said exasperated. “You’re fine.”
“I got sick to my stomach. I was in the outhouse all night.”
Shocked gasps rocked the small church again. Excited babbling spread across the room as townsfolk argued and nodded.
“That’s a lie,” Sarah said, but her words were drowned out by the commotion in the room. She struggled to maintain her composure, gritting her teeth.
“August,” Jack barked and with a tone of such admonishment that the room settled down without Prescott’s direction. “Your digestive problems are caused by your diet and your drinking.”
August simpered, looking pleased with himself. “You’d be the one to know about that, wouldn’t you?” August’s impudence stunned the room, which quieted down to the most silent it had been since Jack arrived.
For several moments, no one spoke. “Yes, I would know,” Jack said, but his poker face remained unblemished. “And I don’t blame my problems on other people or witchcraft. That’s the difference between you and me.”
“That’s enough,” Prescott said, and he swept in between the two men. A flicker of annoyance passed across his face. “I thank you for your testimony, Mr. Miller. Given so earnestly and good-heartedly.”
August rose and retreated back into the pews. Prescott paced in front of his captive audience. He was in his element. The crowd, enthralled by his performance, awaited his next words, a single question interrupting the silence. “Are there any more witnesses?”
“What about her husband?” Jack asked.
“Her husband?” Prescott asked, his head swiveling toward George like a buzzard. “He has already confided in me of her guilt.”
George stood like prairie dog emerging from the ground. “I retract what I said. It was a lie.”
Again, the small church was engulfed in a shouts and discordant cries as townsfolk screeched in shock or indignation.
“Your confession was given and accepted,” Prescott said, the guttural hint of a snarl in his tone.
“I gave it because you badgered me. It is not true. My wife is not a witch.”
“You testimony has been given, and your objection noted. Sit down.” Prescott remained calm, although he adjusted the collar of his cassock. “There is only one person left to speak.”
Prescott turned to Sarah, a lopsided smile smeared across his face. “Mrs. Duncan, will you testify on your behalf?” He gestured to the lectern.
“No,” Sarah said, staring straight ahead.
“I warn you, Mrs. Duncan, that in this trial, refusal to declare one’s guilt or innocence will be considered tacit admission of indiscretion and culpability.”
“I reject this farce,” Sarah said. She lifted her head to address Prescott directly. “How’s that for my statement? And I reject your claims to oversee it.”
“You then refuse to declare your guilt or innocence?” Prescott’s words held a bit of annoyance. “We have no need to continue then, as you’ve made the decision for us.”
“You decided this long before today,” Sarah said, her eyes aflame, but her face a stoic mask of defiance.
Jack stood, his chair grating against the wooden floorboards. Ignoring Prescott, he walked to the front of the pews. “Who here truly believes Sarah Duncan is a witch?” He fought to control the edge in his rising voice.
“Emma?” He glared at Emma Hughes. “It was Sarah who came and helped you when your husband died. Sarah who helped you with your farm. She helped you harvest your crops, fix the broken fence, and took care of things until you hired Anselmo. And this is what you say about her?
“Jeb Thompson.” Jack spun on the farmer in the front row. “When your wife came down with tuberculosis, who helped with your kids? Who cooked for them and made sure they were clothed? Who opened her home to them until your wife recovered? Don’t answer. Everyone knows it was Sarah.
“And now you claim she’s a witch?”
“The river’s rising again,” shouted one of the dockworkers. Jack didn’t recognize the man. Muttered agreements spread throughout the room.
“Morgan built the town too close to the river,” Jack said. “We all know that. And when they moved the town back, they didn’t move it far enough. How is that witchcraft?”
“The crops are failing,” another person said.
Jack spun toward that person. “Crops failed six years ago. It happens. Some years are better than others. These are normal problems of life,” Jack said angrily. “You’re holding her accountable for everything that goes wrong in this town.”
“That ain’t life,” a dockworker shouted back. “This town’s gonna have to move again because of the river.”
This time, a hearty approval of the man’s words reverberated around the room. Jack hesitated. Fear and distrust stretched across the faces in the room. “That’s faulty planning,” he snapped back at the man.
“Excuses, nothing but excuses. We’ve had enough.”
Prescott was offering the townsfolk a solution to their problems that freed them from blame and uncertainly. Jack realized that nothing would change their minds, and he might be making the situation worse.
The same helplessness he felt at the massacre welled up in his chest. This time, he’d find a way to help. But winning this trial wasn’t it. He sighed, stepping back to his seat.
Prescott slid forward. He stood before the room. His figure towered above the townsfolk huddled into the pews and pressed against the walls.
“Friends and God-fearing residents of New Madrid, it appears that I have been brought to you in a dark hour. You have told me of how the mighty river is drowning your town. How the river rises again, threatening all you’ve built and hoped for. How ruthless speculators have stolen your land.
“Your problems are not the mere vicissitudes of life, but premediated, wanton actions of a witch!” He turned, pointing a gaunt hand toward Sarah. “That woman who calls herself Sarah Duncan has brought malevolent hardships upon this town and upon you good folk. You have heard from her own husband and Mrs. Hughes that she conspired to abduct her own daughter while plying on your sympathies for assistance and benevolence.”
The crowd erupted again in an uproar of shouts and outrage. Curses flung from the townsfolk struck Sarah and Jack like rocks against a tree.
Prescott brought the crowd back under control. “I, hereby, find Sarah Duncan guilty of using the Devil’s magic and condemn her to be hanged by the neck until dead.”
The room exploded in such fervor that the walls and ceiling shook, dust and dirt raining down. Even Prescott’s hand waving and exhortations could not calm the townsfolk down.
August, Charlie, and two of the other cutter marines approached the table with Sarah and Jack. They hesitated as Jack stood. Sarah grabbed his hand as it slid toward his gun.
“That is not your way,” Sarah whispered.
Jack turned to her, his face a stone façade of determination. He was embarrassed when he realized he had reached for his gun. He nodded. “I have a plan.”
“Jack,” Sarah said. Her eyes registered a flicker of hope, but begged for no false promises.
For the first time since Abbie’s disappearance, Sarah smiled. “Perfect, Jack. That’s perfect.” She placed her hand on her mouth to hide the faint smile.
“There are enough people in this town that can see through Prescott’s lies to know this is wrong.”
August coughed. “Jack?” he asked with genuine trepidation.
Jack ignored his deputy. “Charlie, will you please escort Sarah back to the jail?” Charlie nodded. Jack turned to August. “Touch her, August, and you’ll answer to me.”
August opened his mouth to respond, thought for a second, and clamped it shut in irritation. Charlie led Sarah away, and August followed without another word.
Prescott walked over to Jack. “I am sorry, Marshal,” he said with a tone that resembled sincerity. “But you cannot deny the will of God.”
“This is not the will of God,” Jack said with a confidence that gave Prescott pause. “It’s a sham. And any God that would value this—” he gestured around the room, “isn’t any God that good men need to acknowledge.”
Prescott tilted his head up. “Has not God spoken here?”
“All I see is men. Men’s words, men’s anger, men’s actions. Men ruled by fear. Exploited by fear.” Jack’s hands slipped to his guns. He patted the handles once, and then pulled his hands back. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’ve saved this town. But what if you’re the one calling down the retribution you claim to be trying to prevent?”
Prescott bared his teeth. Jack had grown accustomed to this particular smile. Long and purposeful, Prescott used it to try and hide fear and anger.
Before the preacher could respond, Jack walked around the table. “Of course, this is your problem now. I still have a young girl to find.”
He strode down the aisle and the townsfolk scattered, most refusing to acknowledge him. He stopped to give a reassuring nod to Sarah as she was being led toward the doc’s house and away from him.
CHAPTER 15
Jack returned to the sheriff’s office. The midday sun poured through the windows, basking the small room in an ethereal glow. Chata sat in the chair in front of Jack’s desk, sunlight splayed around him like a religious painting. He stood when Jack entered.