The Seekers

by John Jakes

  Coughing in the dust that clouded up behind them, he listened to the French and English curses of the sweating drivers. He smiled at the monotonous profanity. Unlike that family waiting over in Illinois, the cart drivers had been around St. Louis a while. They knew the realities. For them there was no dream here, only a laborious job of coaxing and whipping dumb oxen one more block—

  He passed a large limestone warehouse displaying a signboard that said Manuel Lisa. The business of the warehouse was apparent from the bales stacked in rows outside. Jared wrinkled his nose at the gamy stench of the furs.

  He spent an hour jogging around the frontier town. He had to admit he’d seldom seen a place so sharp in contrasts, or so bursting with rowdy life.

  Even the houses contrasted. There were old French residences, identifiable by the logs being set vertically, rather than horizontally, American style. There were newer buildings of Spanish stucco, even a few homes so squarely built and neatly bricked, he would have sworn he was back in Boston.

  Many of the people in the busy streets appeared quite well-to-do. Others had the scruffy look of riffraff. And he was surprised to see quite a few Indians in blankets, beaded shirts and quilled trousers of animal skin. Many of them congregated at an open-air market. Bartering for the various items of trade goods on display, they offered birchbark sacks and skins that held commodities unknown to the boy on horseback.

  Near the market, he passed a small jeweler’s shop. The proprietor blocked the doorway as if reluctant to permit his three Indian customers to enter. The jeweler held a tray of glass eyes. The Indians were examining them with great interest.

  A few moments later, Jared was forced to the side of the street by a half dozen whooping red men on horseback. They thundered by brandishing tomahawks and shooting arrows at a couple of mongrel dogs racing ahead of them. Jared thought it a cruel and disgusting exhibition—until he watched a couple of the arrows bounce off the flank of one of the dogs. He realized the arrows were blunt.

  Though scowling, the whites on the street made no move to interfere. Jared suspected the reasons. The Indians came to trade with the local merchants, so they contributed to the town’s economy. They also came armed. He hadn’t seen one savage without a tomahawk.

  Having retraced his route to the part of town nearest the river, he rode by a crowded café, a billiard parlor in which someone shot off a pistol, then a ramshackle building. From a second-floor gallery, a young woman in a gaily patterned wrapper beckoned to him. She opened the wrapper to show him her small breasts, smiled and ran her fingers down below her waist. She held up two fingers, questioningly.

  Jared shook his head. She closed the wrapper and cursed him—whether in French or Spanish, he couldn’t be certain.

  Everywhere he rode, he searched faces. But his pessimism was deepening. What if Blackthorn had only been making idle conversation in Nashville? He could have ridden hundreds of miles for nothing.

  He consoled himself with one thought. If Blackthorn had said nothing at all, he’d have been completely balked—with nowhere to search, no way to temper his stinging guilt.

  A decent-looking tavern called the Green Tree offered him a room and a stable for the sorrel. A small black boy promised to rub her well and feed her amply. In the crowded taproom, Jared ate a platter of unfamiliar but tasty fried catfish washed down with strong beer.

  To pay for everything, he handed the landlord his last dollar. The man placed the coin on a wood block. With expert strokes of a cleaver, he proceeded to chop the dollar into eight wedges. Bits, the westerners called them. He took six and returned two.

  Jared ordered a second glass of beer and walked back to-his table. The taproom was jammed with all sorts of people. Near him, several well-dressed gentlemen rose while one introduced two new arrivals: a beak-nosed older man identified as a Mr. Moses Austin. The younger man with him was his son Stephen. The group fell to discussing the current state of lead mining. Jared assumed the mines must be located somewhere in the vicinity.

  The olive-skinned tap boy brought his beer. After a careful glance behind him, the boy leaned over and whispered in broken English, “M’sieu Fink is presenting another show at eight tonight, Boston.”

  Jared’s blue eyes widened. “How do you know where I’m from?”

  “You come across the river, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s plain you’re a Yankee—”

  “And my home’s Boston.”

  “Oh! Now I see. In St. Louis, the Spanish and my kind of people—”

  “French?”

  “Yes. To us, any American is a Boston. Until now I never met one who really was from that place. Listen, m’sieu—Fink’s performance is at Lester’s barn. Anyone can tell you how to find it. Cost you two bits for the wildest show you have ever seen.”

  “I don’t know this man you’re talking about.”

  “You don’ know Mike Fink? Only the meanest damn fellow on the river. And the best shot! He puts on a splendid exhibition—” The boy’s voice dropped. “For the climax, his woman, Mira Hodkins, she takes off every last stitch and places a can between her legs, so—” A quick gesture, a lewd smile. “Then Fink, he shoots it out. Unbelievable—!”

  “I’ll pass,” Jared said. “I’ve got business to look after.”

  The boy shrugged, “Up to you, Boston. Not my fault if you don’ know what’s good.” He walked off. Jared smiled and shook his head and gulped beer.

  On his journey he’d acquired a fondness for strong drink. It helped ease worries about Amanda, not to mention the assorted aches and pains at the end of a day’s riding. Though he wouldn’t be sixteen until the fall, he felt twice that old.

  The events of the past year had worked a great change. It showed in the way Jared carried himself, in the strength of his sunburned, insect-bitten hand curled around the beer glass, in the wary alertness of his blue eyes as he surveyed the patrons of the tavern and listened to the polyglot conversations he couldn’t understand.

  The beer made him sleepy. He went for a walk, still sweltering. He found a general store that sold newspapers, returned to his steaming room on the second floor of the tavern and latched the shutters to minimize the glare of the sun.

  Using rags and the tepid water from an ewer on a stand, he washed. Then he flopped on the bed and scanned the front page of the Missouri Gazette.

  His pressroom training made him critical of the typographical errors he found. He was contemptuous of the generally uneven inking. And much of the paper’s content was local material, not of interest. Only a few items dealt with the war.

  One article announced peace negotiations due to open in early August in Ghent, Belgium. Among the American delegates were Clay of Kentucky—Jared could almost hear the ring of the spittoon the night he’d crouched beside the dumbwaiter shaft—and John Quincy Adams, son of the former president. Whether the peace commissioners would be able to come to terms with Castlereagh’s representatives was a moot question, the article said.

  With a sigh, Jared folded the paper, laid it on his belly and closed his eyes. The war seemed far away, hardly touching this town on the edge of civilization. And he had other things to think about, all of them tainted by his guilt at having failed Uncle Gilbert in so many ways.

  He slept for an hour. Then he tugged on his shirt and checked the powder and ball in his pistol. In the stable he asked the small black boy where he might find the governor. He was given directions to a farm a short way out of town.

  “Gubnor Clark, he spend mos’ of his time there in the summer.”

  Jared’s brow hooked up. “Clark? What’s his first name?”

  “William. You know—the captain what went all the way to the ocean—?”

  Surprised, Jared thanked the boy and went to saddle the mare.

  ii

  Tall and slightly stooped, General William Clark, governor of the Missouri Territory, welcomed Jared in the sitting room of the small but pleasant farmhouse.

/>   Jared’s horse had been taken away by a slave who tied the animal in a walnut grove at the rear of the property. The large open windows of the sitting room brought a banquet of aromas: the warm fragrance of summer grass; the sweet odors of flowers blooming all around the cottage. Sounds drifted in as well: slave children laughing at play; the buzz of bees in a hive near the house; the rustle of catalpa trees in the late afternoon wind.

  The sitting room was plainly furnished, yet comfortable. Several things indicated the character of the man who made it his home. A russet-colored hound slept under a window. A rifle and game bag stood in one corner. An Indian calumet hung over the hearth. The windows opened onto the west where hills and sky blended into a hazy line below the disc of the sun.

  “I knew a man named Kent many years ago,” William Clark said. His voice still carried gentle Virginia accents. “At Fallen Timbers. He was from the east just as you are—”

  “My father served at Fallen Timbers, General. Abraham Kent.”

  “You’re Abraham’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  Clark’s face broke into a grin. “By heaven, this makes an occasion!”

  He fetched cups and a whiskey decanter from the mantel.

  “How is your father? I’ve not heard of him since we soldiered together—wait, I did see one letter. Addressed to Merry Lewis—”

  Clark’s voice grew a little more somber when he mentioned the other man. Preceding Clark as governor at St. Louis, Meriwether Lewis had died on the Natchez Trace under mysterious circumstances some years earlier. There had been rumors of suicide brought on by mental depression.

  Clark poured liquor. “As I recall, your father proposed to go with us to the Pacific. Merry and I welcomed the idea. But we heard nothing more.”

  Jared fidgeted on the Philadelphia settee, an elegant import perhaps added by Clark’s wife. “My father died unexpectedly,” he lied.

  “I’m exceedingly sorry to hear that, Mr. Kent.”

  The general passed Jared his whiskey. He had removed his blue officer’s coatee with its horizontal herringbones of braid. He lounged at a window in his shirtsleeves, sipping his drink.

  “I must say you don’t resemble Abraham very much.”

  “I’m told I take after my mother’s side.”

  “Ah.” Clark wiped the back of his hand across his sweating forehead. “You’re a long way from home. Your family’s business was printing and publishing wasn’t it?”

  “Correct.”

  “You didn’t find that to your taste?”

  “The firm changed hands.”

  “Financial problems?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Is it still operating as Kent’s—wasn’t that the name?”

  “Kent and Son. Perhaps. I don’t really know. I left Boston before the matter was settled. My cousin and I—a young girl—started for New Orleans—”

  Clark looked startled. “By yourselves?”

  “Yes.”

  “New Orleans is a long, long way from New England. Many people twice your age wouldn’t even think about hazarding such a journey. Are there members of the family down south, may I ask?”

  Jared had learned to avoid the trap the question posed. “Distant relatives. We got as far as Nashville when we ran into trouble—”

  In guarded language, he told the story of Amanda’s kidnapping. He omitted the rape, finishing, “The man responsible called himself Reverend Blackthorn. When they ran him out of Nashville, he mentioned coming to St. Louis. I assume he would have brought my cousin along—”

  “He could have sold her as a bound girl anywhere along the route—”

  “I realize. Still, I had to come looking for her. Judge Jackson said I should ask you whether you know Blackthorn, or have heard of him.”

  Clark pondered. “Blackthorn. We’ve no preacher in the city by that name.”

  Jared felt his worst fears confirmed. A few words from Clark and his journey was reduced to a futile exercise.

  Clark saw his pain, said quickly, “He might have taken another name. A lot of men do that on the frontier. Describe this Blackthorn for me.”

  Jared had no trouble recalling the greenish eyes, the yellow teeth, the damaged earlobe. “And he’s a tall man. Exceptionally tall. With big hands, and a fondness for what they call free-for-all fighting.”

  “Of which we have more than enough.” Clark smiled.

  “I wonder if it could be the fellow who went by the name Wilford Black.”

  Jared’s blue eyes glinted as he sat forward. “Does the description fit?”

  “Perfectly. We had this Black in jail a few months ago. He maimed an Osage brave who’d come in to trade some wild honey. There were witnesses to the fight, but afterward the Osage couldn’t be found. Between the time of the attack and Black’s arrest, there was a gap of several hours. The judge handling the case speculated that Black had killed the Osage in that interval and done away with the body. But without evidence, the most the court could do was throw Black in jail a short time for disturbing the peace. I don’t honestly know whether he’s still in St. Louis—”

  Jared was on his feet “You didn’t hear anything about a young girl with him, did you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you have any idea where he was staying when he was arrested?”

  Clark thought again, his profile sharp against the sunlight falling through the western window.

  “A place called Mrs. Cato’s. Down near the river.”

  “A boardinghouse?”

  Clark compressed his lips. “Not exactly. A brothel.”

  Jared set the whiskey aside unfinished. “I’d best ride back to town and inquire. I thank you for your help, General.”

  Clark waved. “Black may well have left us by now—no loss. We have too much scum in St. Louis. A town on the edge of civilization—and a river town at that—just normally attracts a bad element—”

  Including murderers, Jared thought. What would Clark do if he knew he were talking to one?

  As he turned to go, Clark put a hand on his arm. “Mr. Kent—”

  “Yes?”

  “May I ask your plans if you fail to locate Wilford Black?”

  “I have no plans,” Jared confessed.

  “Will you stay in St. Louis?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “There are a good many fur traders looking for engages. Hired men to go up the Missouri during the winter—”

  “That’s the last thing I’d do, General.”

  “You dislike this part of the country?”

  “Intensely.”

  “Well—” Clark shrugged. “It’s your affair. However, I must pass along one caution. Should you be lucky enough to find your man, remember that we have courts. Don’t take justice into your own hands.”

  “General, I’ll be honest with you. I couldn’t make any promise about that. Blackthorn’s mean and unpredictable—”

  “So was Wilford Black, if they’re one and the same. Still—”

  “I’m sorry, General. I’ll have to deal with him my own way.”

  “And we’ll have to deal with you if it’s the wrong way.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Clark’s eyes were unsmiling. “I hope so.”

  Jared wheeled and left.

  iii

  Mrs. Cato’s establishment stood on a dark, grubby street a block from the Mississippi. With his seven-shot tucked into his belt, Jared approached the dilapidated building shortly after the sun set around eight o’clock.

  The street sloped down toward the lights of moored river boats. From a passage on his right, Jared heard sounds of struggle. He glanced around, perceiving two dim figures. One was a man on his knees; the other was battering him with both fists. Jared had no intention of interfering. His interest was centered on two lanterns above a high stoop. The sign of Mrs. Cato’s, a man at the Green Tree had told him.

  His heartbeat quickened as he approached the rickety steps. He
climbed to the door, raised one hand to knock. Suddenly there was a ferocious crash inside. A woman screamed.

  Jared tried the door. Unlocked. He stepped into a lightless foyer.

  The racket grew louder. Men were shouting, laughing, cursing; women were shrieking; furniture broke and glass shattered. No one was in the foyer to question his presence.

  He slipped forward until he was opposite a large doorway on the right, the source of the noise. In a lamp-lit parlor, half a dozen men in fringed buckskin and several women in gaudy gowns surrounded an immense, greasy-haired man who seemed bent on destroying the place. Jared gaped at the brawl from the darkness.

  One of the women, older, was struggling to get hold of the big fellow doing all the damage. As he weaved on his feet, he battered away anyone who tried to grab him. Only the older woman, a dumpy harridan with dyed red hair, seemed serious about it. Some of the others were actually handing the man chairs or bottles which he proceeded to hurl against the walls, producing more squeals and laughter from the onlookers. As the big man lurched back and forth like a ship tossing in a sea of hands and heads, another man brandished a rifle and whooped encouragement.

  The wrecker bellowed at the top of his lungs, “No damn snot-nosed French bastard calls me a Kaintuck!”

  The dumpy woman managed to seize his shoulder. He knocked her hand away. The woman screeched, “Elijah Weatherby, I’ll have the military on you!”

  Thoroughly drunk, the big man in buckskin laughed louder than anyone else. “Go ahead, Mrs. Cato, get ’em! I’ll toss ’em all in the river! I’m from Tennessee”—he let out a wild cry, half crow, half bark—“and calling me a Kaintuck is the worst insult I ever—leggo my leg, you bitch!” He lifted his knee to shake off a whore who was hugging his calf like a tree-trunk. She fell to the floor, giggling.

  The big man accepted a small table from one of the other men. He began to break off the table’s legs. “Yes sir, I’m from Tennessee! That means I’m half horse—half alligator”—crack—“an’ part snapping turtle—”