A Lack of Temperance

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “Miss, the facts are simple. The lady broke the law and then skipped town. End of story. I’ve got better things to do with my time than chase some bottle-breaking fanatic across the Ozarks.” He placed his hat on his head. “Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  But that couldn’t be. Before leaving the hotel, I had checked again with the desk clerk. Mrs. Trevelyan was still registered. Could she have left without checking out? From what I had learned about her from her letters, this was not a woman to shy away from controversy. Besides, with the majority of the coalition’s members assembled in one place, she had more support for her cause and predicament than at any other time. But then where was she? And what was I going to do now?

  I took a detour down two short flights of stone stairs to North Main Street and, after passing the bottom of Tibbs Alley, a narrow staircase of at least a hundred steep steps that connected to Center Street high above, started looking for the Cavern Saloon. North Main Street, unusually flat and wide for this mountainous town, was lined with clusters of buildings, mainly of unpainted wood, that were marked by mud from a recent flood. And it was bustling with activity. Farm wagons, water wagons, and carriages of all sorts fought for room in the street. At the one-story, sprawling wooden livery on the corner, three stable hands frantically tried to groom and house eight horses at once. The two restaurants I passed, one with a second-story terrace, were both crowded with patrons, and the Grand Central Hotel, a long, three-story brick building, with its doors almost continually opening and closing with arriving and departing guests, had a group of young men playing marbles inconveniently in the middle of the sidewalk. I noticed no fewer than four other saloons, all with men loitering about outside, before I found the place I was looking for, between a blacksmith shop, with its telltale rhythmic clank of metal on metal, and Crandell’s Tobacco and Fine Cigars.

  The first time I had gone to the Cavern Saloon, I had gone out of sheer curiosity, to see the chaos and destruction caused by the temperance crusaders. And now, out of some necessity, I was going there again. But I hadn’t known where to find it; Sunday night, I had followed a crowd from the Arcadia Hotel by the glow of fire and street lamps. Today I had to ask for directions, and after several uncomfortable exchanges, I had found a woman with a bright red checkered cloth wrapped around her head, and a bareheaded young boy in a well-used white apron pulling fresh cabbage off a cart on the street a few doors down from the police station. I’d asked if they knew where I could find the Cavern. With a questioning glance and a backward wave of her hand, the woman had sent the youth into the store.

  “I shouldn’t have to tell you, ma’am, but that’s no place for a lady.”

  “I need to talk to the saloonkeeper about a mutual acquaintance,” I said.

  When she had finished giving me directions, repeating, “Past Tibbs Alley, now, no use looking for it before,” she placed her hands on her hips.

  “I hope you’re not fixin’ to go there right now, ma’am. Old George is in a foul mood. I think he would wrestle his own mama to the ground if she looked sideways at him today. Besides, it’s getting late. A lady like you shouldn’t be wandering around alone.”

  I had thanked her for her directions and her advice and then walked until I found the saloon. Luckily, no one loitered about outside.

  I’d never been inside a saloon before. I didn’t intend to enter one now. Built into the side of the rocky hillside, I could see how the saloon lived up to its name. I didn’t recognize any of the shops or buildings surrounding it and realized that the events of Sunday night must have taken place on the third-story entrance, two street levels above. I waited outside for several minutes until a man emerged. The strong smell of tobacco and alcohol (Now where had I smelled that recently?) accosted me as the doors swung open.

  “Excuse me, sir? Would you be kind enough to ask the owner if he would grant me a few minutes?”

  The man offered me one long, uncomfortable stare and continued down the street. I attempted this three more times, twice with men going into the saloon and once with another man leaving. However, I waited in vain. I glanced at my watch; I’d been waiting for over an hour and it was starting to get dark. I was going to have to enter myself or abandon my mission. I stood there a few more minutes gathering my courage.

  “May I help you, miss?”

  I recognized his voice. Until that moment, the men that had frequented the Cavern had dirt under their nails and few words on their lips and were looking forward to a well-earned drink. But I knew when I turned to see him that his dress would be impeccable. I wasn’t disappointed.

  “Ah, the lovely lady from Sunday night’s bar raid.” The gentleman I had met two days ago removed his top hat. “May I be of service?”

  “Yes, thank you. I was hoping for an audience with the saloonkeeper. Would you ask him if he would step outside and give me a moment of his time? It’s about a mutual acquaintance, Mrs. Edwina Trevelyan.”

  “Mrs. Trevelyan?” The gentleman laughed as he removed his gloves, one finger at a time. “I’m not sure George wants to talk to anyone about the good and righteous Mrs. Trevelyan. But for an introduction, lovely lady, I’ll do whatever is in my power to help you.”

  “Miss Hattie Davish.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Davish.” He took my hand, lifting it against his soft lips. “Walter Grice, at your service.” Slightly flustered, I could feel the blood rise in my cheeks.

  Walter Grice released my hand. “I must warn you, Miss Davish, George isn’t in the best of moods. As you can imagine, Mrs. Trevelyan is not his favorite topic, and with what happened this afternoon . . . But if you would still like to speak to him, I’ll get him for you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Grice. Yes, I would like to speak to, is it George?”

  “Yes, George Shulman.”

  True to his word, Mr. Grice disappeared into the saloon and emerged within minutes with the man I’d seen standing up to the temperance demonstrators earlier that afternoon. George Shulman, after wiping it on his apron, held out his hand as we introduced ourselves. It was as callused as Walter Grice’s hand had been soft.

  “Walt says you want to talk to me?”

  “Yes, Mr. Shulman. I’m Mrs. Edwina Trevelyan’s secretary and—” I didn’t get any farther. With a menacing glare at Mr. Grice, George Shulman stormed back toward the saloon. He collided with one of his arriving customers and, without an apology, yanked open the door, shoving the man inside.

  “She’s missing,” I cried. George Shulman stopped, the open door still in his hand, and looked back at me. The dramatic tactic worked, but I felt embarrassed in front of the attentive eyes of Walter Grice. “I know she disrupted your business, but—”

  He pointed to his bandaged head. “Is this a disruption? Those women cracked open my skull and almost burned down in one night what I’ve spent my whole life building.” As he let go of the door, someone from inside pushed a chair against it, propping it open. The room beyond was dim, but I could see outlines of men gathering near the open doorway.

  He advanced toward me. “You say she’s missing? Do you think I care if she’s missing? You have no idea what that woman has cost me.”

  “Good riddance, huh, George,” a voice from inside shouted.

  “Have you seen her since Sunday, Mr. Shulman?” I said, ignoring the taunt.

  “I don’t know what you’re implying, miss. But I was here all day; I’m here every day.”

  “Unless you’re out campaigning,” another voice from inside shouted. “Shulman for city council!”

  Someone else chanted, “Vote No on 203, Vote No on 203,” his feet stomping on the wooden floor, mimicking the marchers. Several men laughed.

  George Shulman, ignoring the ruckus behind him, stopped within inches of my face. “I hope I never lay eyes on that woman again. I could kill her for what she’s done to me.”

  He stomped back into the saloon, shoving the chair away and slamming the door behind him.
r />   “Kill her?” Did I hear him right?

  “Miss Davish?” My ears were ringing and someone was calling my name. “Miss Davish? Are you all right?” Walter Grice, grasping me by the wrist, glanced at his pocket watch. Taking a few deep breaths, I extricated my wrist from the gentleman’s grip.

  “You’ll have to forgive George, Miss Davish. His behavior is inexcusable.”

  I straightened my hat. “It’s a relief to know he’s not always like this.”

  “No, the Cavern is known as much for its hospitality as it is for its brawls; its proprietor is very popular. George Shulman may even be our new city councilman. No, he’s not all bad, Miss Davish. He didn’t mean what he said, I assure you.”

  We stood in silence for a moment or two. A beautiful tenor voice began singing somewhere inside the saloon. The song, met with rowdy applause, was jovial, but I couldn’t understand the words.

  “You see,” Walter Grice said, tilting his head toward the source of the music, “that’s typical George; he’s already forgotten about your row.”

  I knew I wouldn’t soon forget. “It was nice to make your acquaintance, again, Mr. Grice, but I must be going.” I turned to leave.

  “Let me walk you to your hotel, Miss Davish, if that’s where you’re going. It will be dark soon. Let me escort you back.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but . . .”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  Mr. Grice did seem charming, and an escort would be prudent given that night was fast approaching. But the exchange with George Shulman had left my ears ringing and my hands shaking. I needed the solitary walk back to the Arcadia to calm my nerves.

  “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”

  The song in the saloon stopped short, and then we heard shouting and the sound of shattering glass. Before Walter Grice could comment, I hurried away.

  It was getting late. And I was full of self-reproach before I even reached the Tibbs Alley stairwell. The once-crowded street was quiet of wagon traffic. The horses were all stabled and the marble players were gone. Only the men loitering outside saloons remained. The farmers and the shopkeepers were safely sitting by their firesides, not wandering past saloons, which were blazing with light and full to capacity with questionable characters. The warm glow of the gas street lamps on the faces of the people I passed only reminded me of my foolishness. What was I thinking? The saloonkeeper had threatened to kill Mrs. Trevelyan. Was he in earnest or merely making a boisterous, but harmless claim? Either way, I should never have gone to the saloon. Wanting the quickest route back to the hotel, I began climbing the alley stairs.

  With buildings towering up on either side three and four stories high, the only patch of light came from a single lamp, about a third of the way up, illuminating a fragment of an advertisement painted on the wall, & Sons, Furnishers, Guaranteed. Music and laughter coming from nearby establishments were swallowed up in the stillness around me as I reached the dim glow of the lantern. I paused in the circle of its light and peered down at the street below. A young couple, arm in arm, strolled by, the streetlight reflecting off the white heron feathers on the girl’s hat. Their lighthearted banter persisted as they passed out of sight. I adjusted my bonnet, imagining the wares in Mrs. Cunningham’s window and, hesitating only slightly when I turned to face the darkness above, continued climbing with renewed vigor. When did I become so skittish?

  Two flights of stairs from the top, the alley was pitch dark and I had to use the rail to guide me. I barely missed kicking an empty bottle sitting on the landing. A waft of liquor drifted from an unlit doorway. As I bent to move it, a figure lurched out directly in front of me. In the darkness, I could only make out the outlines of a cloak and hat. I stood up and stepped back, losing my balance. Two hands reached out and seized my shoulders. But instead of attempting to steady me, they shook me frantically.

  “You.” The voice seethed with rage.

  “Let me go,” I said.

  “Why couldn’t you leave it alone?”

  “Let me go.”

  “Why couldn’t you keep your stupid mouth shut?”

  “Let me go!”

  I kicked out and struck a blow with the heel of my boot. The figure yelped, releasing me from his grip. Futilely grasping for a hold, I screamed, powerless to stop my backwards fall. For a few heartbeats, I was airborne. I tried to brace my fall with my hands but my knee hit first, tossing me hard onto my back farther down the stairs. I gasped for breath. Something wet dripped down my face and I could taste blood in my mouth. Cold air pierced the exposed skin on my shoulders and legs; my stockings were in shreds. My right foot was tangled in the torn hem of my dress. My knee throbbed and the palms of my hands stung. I could feel what was left of my bonnet crumpled beneath me, the ribbon band still attached to the hatpin in my hair. But thank goodness, I’d stopped falling.

  A man shouted from the street below. Glass shattered as the single lantern crashed against the wall, plunging the alley into complete darkness. I attempted to get up. The sound of advancing footsteps echoed in my ears as the sliver of sky between the buildings momentarily cleared to reveal a brilliant field of stars. Then everything went black.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Wake up, Miss Davish.” A soft, warm hand lightly tapped my cheek. “Come on, now, wake up.”

  Go away, I thought, groaning at the disruption of my sleep.

  “That a girl. Now open your eyes.” Sunlight flooded the room as Walter Grice’s concerned face hovered above me. I bolted upright, holding the sheet to my chin. He took a step back.

  “Mr. Grice, what are you doing here?”

  My bandaged hands stung and blood rushed to my head. I was in my bed at the Arcadia Hotel. The memory of the night before flooded back as I sank into the pillows. I gingerly touched my ribs. I felt a bandage on my forehead and knew I’d find similar ones on my shoulder and knee. My head pounded. My whole body ached.

  “Everything’s all right, dear.” Miss Lizzie patted my hand from the other side of the bed. I hadn’t noticed her before. Miss Lucy and Mary Flannagan stood behind her. “You’re in good hands with Dr. Grice.”

  “Dr. Grice?” I said. “You didn’t tell me you were a physician.”

  “Have you two already met?” Miss Lucy asked.

  “Yes, twice,” the doctor said, grinning.

  “But you could say we weren’t properly introduced,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Davish,” the doctor said. “Under Sunday’s circumstances, I thought it was obvious and didn’t need mentioning. You don’t have anything against the medical profession, do you?” He laughed as he held my wrist and glanced at his watch.

  I said nothing, but tried to pull my hand away.

  Dr. Grice raised his head, his smile gone. “Not crazy about physicians, eh, Miss Davish?” I bit back my reply.

  “You’ve suffered several lesions and abrasions, not to mention a possible concussion or broken rib. I recommend a complete examination, but . . .”

  “But if I’m merely suffering from cuts and bruises, then there’s no need,” I said, inching to the other side of the bed. My skin felt clammy and cold.

  “Hattie, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, “Dr. Grice is an excellent physician. There’s no need to worry. You’re in good hands.”

  I sat up, slower this time, and faced Miss Lizzie, my back to the doctor and his expression of concern.

  “Oh, I’m sure he is. But I don’t need a physician.” I removed the bandage from my head. “See? I’m quite all right now.” To avoid witnessing Mary Flannagan dispose of the bloody bandage, I focused on the fresh pile of correspondences on the desk. “And I have work to do.”

  “Oh, your work can wait, Davish,” Miss Lucy said.

  “Don’t be afraid, dear. Lucy and I have known Dr. Grice for years. He’s our physician whenever we’re in town.” I began to shake. “He attends most of our friends as well.”

  “Did you know that if it wasn’t for Dr. Grice, Davish, you might s
till be lying in Tibbs Alley?” Miss Lucy said.

  “It’s a blessing, dear, that he was so close at hand.”

  “Dr. Grice heard you scream,” Mary Flannagan said. “You were bleeding all over.” She held up the bloody bandage as proof. The room began to spin as waves of dizziness washed over me. “You’ve been unconscious all night.”

  “Davish, the way you’re acting, you’d think the man pushed you down the stairs,” Miss Lucy grumbled. “Now sit up and let him examine you.”

  I glanced at Walter Grice’s face, but couldn’t read his expression.

  “Must you?” I closed my eyes and clutched the sheet to my chin.

  “It’s all right, Miss Davish. I’ve seen enough for today.” I dropped back into the pillows, relieved. “Promise me, though, that you’ll get plenty of rest. I’ve left an elixir with the maid. It’s to be taken for the pain twice a day.”

  I eyed the bottle on the nightstand, nodded, and was grateful to watch him pack up his medical bag. He left instructions with the maid and said good-bye to the elderly sisters. My heart pounded in my chest when he approached my bed again and leaned in close. Was it from the gleam in his eye or the fact that I might not have averted the examination after all? I wasn’t sure.

  “I’ll be in your debt, Miss Davish, if you don’t mention where we met.” He glanced over his shoulder at the Shaw sisters and then winked at me. “I’m not sure they would approve.” I closed my eyes and inhaled the sweet scent of his shaving cologne.

  “Rest now. I’ll be back to check on you later.” To my surprise, I almost looked forward to it.

  “What were you doing in Tibbs Alley, Davish? And at night?” Miss Lucy said the moment the doctor shut the door behind him. “You may excel at what you do, but you certainly don’t know what you’re doing. No common sense whatsoever.”

  “I wanted to speak with George Shulman, the man who owns the bar.”

  “You went into a saloon?” Miss Lucy said, flabbergasted. “I’m extremely disappointed in you, Davish. I think we’ve misjudged you. We thought you were respectable and knew your place.”