New Madrid

by Robert Tomaino

  “You were right,” Jack said.

  “Once he makes up his mind, he rarely changes it,” Chata said.

  “He knows she’s not a witch,” Jack said. A bitter, acrid taste rose in his mouth.

  “He will seek to hang her quickly,” Chata spoke softly. “Tonight, I’d reckon.”

  “I know,” Jack said. “He brought the stench of death to this town.”

  Chata twisted his head slightly. “Sometimes, you have an odd way of speaking.” He smiled as if he found the marshal humorous.

  “I know death,” Jack said. “I sense it coming now.”

  “So do I,” Chata said. He gazed at Jack with sympathy. “I will help you free Sarah. When you defy the preacher, I will stand alongside you.”

  Neither man spoke after that. Life was strange that this man, who had tried to kill him days earlier, now offered his unrelenting support. Jack wondered what thoughts went through Chata’s mind at the moment, but no doubt this outcome was not why he had traveled so far.

  For Jack, history had repeated itself with a twist. Twenty years ago, a village had been slaughtered and he could only save one boy. Now, the story had been flipped, and a village wanted to hang one woman, but Jack believed that in saving the woman, he could save the entire town.

  “Tonight, this ends,” Jack said. “Are you ready?”

  Chata nodded. “I will do what you asked.”

  Jack breathed a bit easier. “Thank you.”

  “I will handle it,” Chata said with conviction. He turned to leave.

  “One more thing,” Jack said. “Do you know where Doc Waters’ house is?”

  Chata nodded again.

  “Will you go see Sarah, please?” Jack walked to the jail cell. He closed one of the doors, which shut with a metallic click. He rapped his knuckles across the bars. “Tell her what the plan is.”

  “It’s not much of plan,” Chata said without judgement.

  Jack smiled ruefully. “They never are.”

  Around twilight, shouts and cries from the townsfolk reached Jack before Chata returned. When he entered, his breath came in faltering, shallow gasps.

  “It’s done,” he said. He nodded over his shoulder. “See for yourself.”

  Jack followed Chata outside. The gallows, which loomed above the town center like a wooden dinosaur, glowed in flames. Cries arose throughout the town as the frightened people rushed to put out the fire before it spread to more buildings in the town square. They grabbed buckets and ran to the river to haul back water.

  Jack stood for a moment as the flames grew, casting shadows that accentuated the twilight skies above New Madrid. The comet still blazed a distant path in the sky.

  “I’ll help with the fire; you free Sarah.” He broke into a run.

  As he neared the burning structure, people rushed in every direction. Jack ordered the panicking men and women to form a chain to the river and set others after buckets and other containers. In a short time, buckets sailed from the river to the town center, their contents heaved onto the flames.

  The fire was extinguished before it could spread, but the gallows were reduced to a smoldering jumble of wood. Ash and smoke filled the air around the town center. Some people coughed as the wind slowly dissipated the haze.

  “What happened?” Prescott shouted as he arrived from the hotel. He screeched his comment as he neared Jack.

  “I have no idea. I wasn’t here,” Jack said. He shrugged, solemnly regarding what remained of the gallows. “Wood burns.”

  “Who did this?” Prescott said with less confidence. His eyes flared, challenging Jack, who stood unflinching.

  “Not the marshal.” George approached the two men. He still carried a bucket in his hands. He flinched at the preacher’s icy stare. “I was with him.”

  A flicker of hesitation and doubt crossed the preacher’s face. His eyes narrowed, but flared to life moments later. He spun to face the growing crowd.

  “Do you see?” he roared, waving his hands at the smoldering pile of wood. “Do you see her power?” He addressed August directly. “Bring her now!”

  More townsfolk poured into the square. Prescott turned to address the newcomers as well. “I fear that we have delayed too long. Sarah Duncan’s witchcraft is far greater than even I suspected. She has destroyed the gallows.” He paused as people gasped, a fearful hum spreading through the crowd. “Do not fear, for we have God’s will.”

  A few people cried out in support. The dockworkers, hard and cold men, raised their fists and shouted to hide their fear. Some of the women appeared cold-eyed and hard, but behind their glassy eyes, Jack sensed the same alarm. Other people tried to shout down the preacher’s words, but their voices were drowned out by their opposition. The cries blended together, making Jack’s head ring.

  Chata appeared from the shadows. He shook his head.

  “What happened?” Jack asked.

  “They moved her from Doc Waters’. I do not know where she is.”

  The barking and whining of dogs started to fill the dusk air. Horses shifted and stamped their feet, as if they could sense the tension. Birds flitted back and forth and cried in the skies, as if unable to find stable purchase.

  August returned with the accused. Jack had imagined Sarah fighting the deputy every step of the way, but she walked with unflappable poise, every step taken with purpose and grace. She held her head straight and stared in front of her, refusing to acknowledge anyone. August appeared like a rodeo clown on stilts, his arms and legs gangly and uncoordinated in comparison as he walked next to her.

  Prescott motioned to one of the legs of the gallows, the only one still standing. August led Sarah there.

  “Tie her to the post,” Prescott said. “She’ll be burned at the stake.”

  The crowd screamed, cries of exhortation and disbelief mingled together in a senseless cacophony. Jack struggled to process the preacher’s words, unable to move or draw his guns.

  “We will purge the town of this great evil,” Prescott shouted.

  “You’re wrong,” Jack shouted back. “God will punish you,” he pointed at the preacher before turning on the crowd, “and all of us for condemning an innocent woman to death.”

  “You do not speak for God, Sheriff.” Prescott nodded again to August. The militiaman led Sarah, who still refused to resist, to the post.

  Jack stood, unable to move. The cries of anger and fear faltered as the Sewapois arose in his mind. The cries changed to those of women and children, some pleading for mercy, others defiant to the end. Images of the U.S. Army’s unrelenting barrage systemically eradicating the tribe haunted his vision. His right hand gripped the arrowhead as August finished tying Sarah to the stake.

  “Jack!” Chata shouted.

  Jack shuddered and shook his head. At first, he thought Chata an apparition manifested from his head, but slowly his senses returned.

  Harrison Tucker knelt in front of the wood and pulled out a tinder box and fire steel. He, along with several men, found dry pieces of wood and stacked them together by the post. Tucker struck the fire steel, sparks flying onto the already charred wood. A few of the embers caught, and the boards began to smoke and flame anew.

  As soon as the flames lit, the ground shook. A roaring exploded from every direction, as if a thousand cannons had fired and continued to fire sporadically. A thunderous crack reverberated through the town square, and a fissure opened alongside the gallows, spewing sand and charcoal. The smell of rotten eggs permeated the air. Screams of terror bombarded the square as panicked townsfolk ran in all directions or stood transfixed in horror and astonishment.

  Jack stumbled as he struggled to keep his balance. He yanked a knife from his pocket and rushed toward August. The deputy pulled out a pistol, but couldn’t raise it all the way up before Jack crashed into him. Jack fumbled the knife from his hands. August dropped his gun.

  August shoved Jack aside and scrambled to his feet. Jack stood and swung his fist, catching August square in th
e left check and sending the man to sprawl in the dirt. Nearby, Chata grappled with Harrison as the flames grew on the wooden remnants of the gallows. Sarah’s eyes were riveted on the flames, terror flashing across her face. Jack hesitated at the sight of her fear and took the full force of August’s shoulder as the younger man barreled into him.

  As they rolled through the dirt, Jack thrust August aside and scrambled to his feet as August tumbled along the ground. August crouched on his knees and hesitated. To his right lay his gun.

  “Don’t,” Jack said. His arms hung loosely by his sides.

  August grabbed his pistol and stood holding it at his side. The ground shook again, a bubble in the earth’s surface rippling toward them like a wave in the ocean, and crashed into both men, knocking them to the ground. August scrambled to his feet, whipped his gun toward Jack, and collapsed, a splotch of red growing on his shirt.

  Jack tried to retain his footing on the roiling ground. He held his gun out before him, a wisp of smoke trailing from the barrel. His hand shook slightly.

  “Jack!” Sarah’s cry broke him from his detachment.

  He holstered his gun and ran to her. He climbed up the broken wood to her side. When he reached for his knife, he remembered it lay strewn somewhere nearby. He could feel the heat from the growing flames as he frantically clawed at the ropes that bound Sarah to the post.

  “Jack?” Sarah’s voice trembled.

  He tried picking up some of the splintered wood, but nothing appeared sharp enough to cut her bonds. His right hand flashed to his neck, instinctively closing on the Sewapois arrowhead.

  He gasped. He tore the chain off his neck and sawed the ropes with the sharpened arrowhead. Slowly, the rope unraveled until the frayed pieces fell away and Sarah yanked her hands free. She staggered off the woodpile. Jack cast the arrowhead into the fire and climbed down after her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Jack!” Harrison screamed. He held a shotgun leveled at them.

  Jack shoved Sarah to the side. Harrison hesitated, the conflict evident in his eyes.

  “Harrison.” Jack held up his hands.

  “You’re protecting a witch.” He spat the words out.

  A soft whoosh sounded through the air, and a tomahawk embedded itself in Harrison’s chest. The shotgun clattered to the ground as Harrison grabbed the shaft of the tomahawk, disbelief flickering in his eyes, before they slid shut. He toppled to the ground.

  Jack turned to Chata, but he was already struggling with a dockworker. Jack took a step toward him when something struck the side of his head. He crumpled to the ground in pain.

  Prescott stood over him. The preacher dropped a chunk of burnt gallows wood to the ground next to him. He unholstered a flintlock pistol.

  “Fool! She will destroy us.” He aimed the pistol at Jack. “Her magics will tear a man to shreds and leave his entrails on the ground.”

  “No!” Sarah’s voice rose above the fray. “If I wanted to stop a man, I’d just use a shotgun.”

  Prescott turned. Sarah stood with Tucker’s discarded weapon. Recognition had barely flickered across his face when she pulled the trigger. Prescott’s body flew backward, landing on the burning rubble of the gallows.

  She dropped the gun and ran to Jack. Her eyes shone with tears. “I’m getting tired of picking you up all the time, Jack.”

  Chata had returned, and he held out his hand. Jack grabbed it, and allowed himself to be hoisted up. Chata looked at Sarah. “My people believe it takes a village to raise a man.” He stepped back after Jack regained his footing. “With him, it might take two.”

  Sarah laughed softly before the land shook again, and all three fought to maintain their balance. The town had noticeably sunk several feet, and water poured into the town from the river. Explosions periodically sounded from the direction of the river, launching huge sprays of water from the Mississippi.

  Jack called to a group of townsfolk huddled together at the edge of the town square. “Quickly, to the hills. We need to get to higher ground.”

  Several of the town’s buildings were ablaze. Doc Waters’ roof had caved in, and the saloon burned, flames pouring out the windows. Whether from toppled candles or embers spewed from the fireplace, the wooden structures flared a brilliant orange as the flames flickered from the windows and doors. Young mothers, children, and the elderly emerged from their homes and joined the group as they picked their way through the streets to the hillside.

  A hazy, sulfurous cloud hung in the air, making it difficult to see far ahead. They ran into fissures in the ground or rubble from collapsed buildings that forced them to alter their path. Jack never stopped speaking, shouting encouragement, and trying to give the remaining townsfolk a rallying point. In the distance, lightning crackled, suffusing the land with a temporary, pale glow.

  Birds scattered throughout the sky, screeching and darting about in all directions in confusion and fear. The noise of their cries created an incessant din above the group’s heads. Smaller birds flocked to the humans, landing on shoulders or backs trying to gain purchase and perhaps protection.

  Jack shooed the birds away and pushed forward. The odor of rotten eggs grew stronger in the air. Occasionally, people dropped to their knees to pray for deliverance and salvation. Jack pulled them to their feet and exhorted them to continue. Several of the men went back to the stables and brought back as many of the horses as they could.

  They emerged from the town, and Jack realized they were still not safe. Flames danced through the town. The roof and back wall of the stationhouse gave way and tumbled to the ground. He shepherded them toward the hills northwest of New Madrid.

  They spent the night on a nearby hillside, huddled together in fear. Repeated aftershocks kept them awake throughout the night. When dawn arrived, the sun stayed hidden behind a thick vapor, leaving the land dark except for a faint, heavenly glow.

  CHAPTER 16

  The next morning, a dense vapor arose through the seams and rents in the ground and hung in the air, mingling with smoke from the remnants of the burning town. Unable to penetrate the gloom, the sunlight suffused the land in a dim glow that seemed to leak in from the edges of the sky and horizon. The townsfolk remined huddled on the hill, while stragglers showed up out of the fog. Some came from outside the town, hoping New Madrid would offer safe haven.

  A few hours later, enough light trickled through the haze that the people could make their way down to assess the damage to the town. Nearly every building had suffered some type of structural damage. Bricks from toppled chimneys lay strewn about the streets. Pieces of charred wood lay scattered wherever they walked. The jailhouse was a smoldering ruin. The entire front of the saloon had caved in. Small fires still burned in many of the other buildings. The huge rent in the ground that had split the town square in half emitted a dense stream of vapor.

  “Jack, have you seen George?” Sarah asked.

  Jack scanned the townsfolk milling about the square. “No, not before the quake.”

  “I saw your husband by the fissure,” Chata said. He seemed uneasy.

  Sarah strode over to him. “Did you see him fall in?”

  “No,” Chata said with respectful force. “I do not know what happened to him.”

  Sarah glanced toward the jagged opening in the ground. Her facial muscles twitched with conflicting emotions.

  “I did not see him either,” Jack said. He took a step toward Sarah, but hesitated.

  Sarah’s mouth pinched shut. Jack picked up a brick from a collapsed chimney and hurled it into the blackness.

  “We should look for him, either way,” Sarah said. She nodded to Broussard, who approached from the other side of town.

  “My eyes, you are all a glorious sight,” Broussard said. He was disheveled and exhausted but otherwise unscathed. He smiled at the trio. “What should we do now?”

  Jack stepped forward and embraced the Frenchman. Clouds of dust and dirt popped off their clothes as the patted ea
ch other on the back. The rumble of wagon wheels pulled them apart. As the wagon neared them, Mary waved from the driver’s seat.

  “Where they hell were you holed up?” Broussard shouted with elation.

  “In my shop, where else?” Mary said.

  Jack looked past the wagon. The blacksmith shop stood undamaged. “The entire town was destroyed or damaged, and you stayed in your shop, which looks fine.”

  “Yep,” Mary said. She gave an exaggerated shrug. “I had faith it’d make it through.”

  “Before we decide what to do, let’s look for anyone who’s missing. We’ll meet back in the town center by midday.” Jack directed the townsfolk to different areas, and everyone spread out, shouting and calling names aloud to see who had survived the town’s collapse.

  Chata approached Jack. “I think you should come to the river.”

  They rode down to the river. Two keelboats lay in shattered hulks along the riverbank. A jagged chunk of the bank had given way, and water poured over the exposed land. Jack gaped as he realized the muddy brown river was flowing to the north, not to the south. Small whirlpools dotted the surface. Farther down the river, a ten-foot waterfall had grown, the land upheaved enough to create the new formation.

  “The river is running backward,” Jack said, as much to himself as to Chata.

  “Anyone who is interested,” Jack said, his voice echoing through the town. “We are heading to Ste. Genevieve. Father Maxwell has always assured us that we have a home there. Gather what you can and meet us on the northwest hill in an hour.”

  After amassing on the hill, the small group headed west toward the King’s Highway. The road had started as a bridle path between Ste. Genevieve and New Madrid, traversed by hunters and traders. As the region grew in population, the trail had been beaten down by the tread of many feet and hooves, so that is was a more well-defined road.