She hovered over him now, still smiling. “Welcome to the Shea house. My name is Iris Shea.”
His breathing came regular now, and he wiped his hands on the sheet beneath the quilt. Shea? Yes, that’s what the black servant had said.
“Let us put some food into your stomach,” Iris Shea said. “You must eat to regain your strength.” She did not wait for him to reply, but busied herself easing the tray onto his lap, withdrawing a silver cover that revealed a large bowl of soup. A china cup held steaming tea, and he smelled freshly baked sourdough bread.
“Shea.” He tested the name. Another memory came to him savagely. “Captain Conor Shea of the Seventh Kansas.”
“My husband.”
“I was to dine with him.”
“You were in no condition to dine with anyone last night.”
“Last night?”
Iris Shea had a wonderful smile that almost relaxed Alistair. “Do you remember anything?” she asked, her smile quickly replaced by concern. “Your name, for instance?”
“It’s Alistair.” He caught himself before he made a fatal mistake. “Jim Alistair. Of Dover, Ohio.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“I remember jumping off a ledge like a damned …” He stopped himself, began to blush, and mumbled: “My apologies, ma’am.”
Iris Shea laughed. “Young man, I have heard much worse in this household, I assure you.”
“Mother!” The voice coming from outside the room was fresh, young. Footsteps sounded, then that blonde-headed rider—that brash girl who had split her skirt so she could ride like a man—entered the room. She didn’t look so high-spirited now, but she was lovely, her eyes wide when she saw Alistair had not died, was sitting up in bed.
“Maura can explain,” Mrs. Shea said, “and apologize. I must go to the carriage house and let the captain know that you are awake. And your friend, Mister Benedict.”
The soup smelled better than it tasted. Maura Shea seemed pleasant enough, but she was no Lucy Cobb. Even Alistair’s sister wouldn’t have dared slit her skirts like that to mount a horse. Lucy damned well wouldn’t have even considered it. Back at New Hope, the preacher would likely have excommunicated any woman so brazen.
That was a fancy dress Maura wore now. By grab, she probably had a dress for every day of the week, when, back home, a girl like Lucy Cobb or Cally Durant would have one everyday dress. When winter came, they’d rip that dress apart at the seams, then sew it back together with the inside out, to make it look new. And the Cobbs and Durants weren’t even poor by Clay County standards.
When he was done eating, Maura Shea took the tray off his lap. “Would you like anything else, Mister Alistair?”
“No.” After a moment, he remembered to add: “Ma’am.”
“I do not blame you for being angry at me,” she said.
He looked at her, suddenly realizing he’d been acting rude. But angry? Well, maybe he was. After all, he was Missourian, and this was Kansas.
The girl said: “I put you in harm’s way.”
“Well …” He shrugged. “I didn’t have to dive into that river.”
She leaned forward, placing her delicate left hand on his arm, which tingled him all over. “But you did,” she said urgently. “You dived thirty feet over the bluff, into the Kaw, and you can’t swim a lick!”
She removed her hand, and he looked at the arm hairs where she’d rested her fingers. He stared at that place the longest time, before making himself look up into her large, wonderful eyes.
“How’d you know I can’t swim?”
“Your associate, Mister Benedict, told us.”
His head bobbed slightly. “I saved your life?” he asked.
“Jim Alistair, you should be thanking those stevedores on the banks for saving both your lives,” Beans announced, stepping through the threshold, his coat over his shoulder, hat in his hand. He smiled. “I’m glad to see you back amongst the living, pardner.” He moved easily across the rug, dropping coat and hat on a chair, bowing gentlemanly at Maura, and sitting on the bed by Alistair’s knees.
“Does he remember anything?” Beans asked Maura.
“I don’t think he remembers much,” she said, and looked at Alistair, eyes smiling.
“It’s like this, Jim,” Beans said. “The other rider knocked her horse. Accidentally, of course. Miss Maura tried to recover, and almost did, but she and her horse were too close to the bluff. So they went over. She and the horse fell thirty feet to the water below. That’s when you took off at a gallop … just leaped over the edge, boots and all.”
“It was a gallant thing to do,” Maura said.
“It was a fool stunt,” Beans countered.
Alistair saw Conor Shea, Maura’s father, standing in the doorway, fiddling with a pipe. The redleg captain said nothing.
“You hit the water. Luckily you landed in a deep pocket, else you’d all be at the undertaker’s right now. I didn’t dive in after you. Nor did that other rider … what’s his name?”
“Alun Cardiff,” Maura answered.
“Yeah. Alun he yells for help, then takes off running south, down where the bluff ends. Some of Miss Maura’s friends ran with him. Others followed me. We were heading for the landing, but, when we reached that ravine, we just climbed down in it, and it led us down to the bank. What bank there was. Not much of a chance we could get to you from there, though. I was thinking you’re both dead, anyway, but some darkies were coming from the landing. They’re rowing a boat like you’ve never seen one rowed before. I mean to tell you, that boat was flying. Well, they fished you both out of the water. I could hear Miss Maura coughing, but you weren’t making a noise, so I figured you’re done for. And wouldn’t that be a horrible letter I’d have to write your uncle at the Dover Yards.” He paused here, obviously reminding Alistair of where they were, and who they were supposed to be.
“Well, we went back up the ravine, ran down to the landing, and they’ve pulled you out of the boat by then. They haul you to the doctor. Must have pumped a gallon of water out of your body. By then you’re moaning, so I’m thanking the Almighty for your deliverance. When Captain Shea hears about what has happened, he orders your removal from the sawbone’s office to here. And here is where you are.”
“I reckon,” Alistair said, “I should pay those stevedores for rescuing me.”
“Those wharfies have been paid in full,” Captain Shea said from the room’s entrance. He lit his pipe, tossed the match into a cuspidor. “Paid in full and then some. You owe such men nothing. They were all Missouri slaves … until I freed them.”
He chilled the room, spoiled the mood. His daughter rose quickly, refusing to look him in the eye.
“Go help your mother,” the captain ordered, and, head bowed, Maura obeyed obediently, stopping only when he said her name as she stepped toward the balustrade. “You owe Card Cardiff for saddle, bridle, and horse, Daughter.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And that shall be the last time you put on a riding display such as that disgusting one.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Go on.”
She was gone, and, after drawing on his pipe and sending the blue smoke toward the linen canopy, Captain Shea spoke as he pulled up a chair near the bed. “Imagine that girl. Riding like a man. Then having to get fished out of the Kaw River by niggers.”
Neither Alistair nor Beans said a word.
Captain Shea smoked his pipe.
After the silence stretched well past the awkward phase, Alistair shifted his pillows, and said: “What about the black mare she was riding, sir?”
Deliberately Conor Shea removed his pipe, and stared long and hard at Alistair. After another unbearable silence, he laughed, slapping his knee, and dropping the pipe in the tray on the bedside table. “I thought you were a cattle buyer,
son, not a horse trader, but, by Jehovah, that is a question that I can appreciate. You did not dive into that river to save my daughter. It was the horse you cared about!” His callused hand slapped Alistair’s covered leg as he pushed himself to his feet.
“That’s a dandy, Mister Alistair. You’re a lover of horses.”
Of that particular horse, Alistair thought. By grab, I trained that mare. And you, or someone in your dirty group of redlegs, stole her. Then, he felt ashamed, for there was much truth in what Captain Shea had said. He had cared more for that mare.
“The river got the horse, Jim,” Beans said solemnly.
“And a forty-dollar saddle and other fine tack,” Captain Shea said. “Card Cardiff will likely send me a bill for killing his horse, and losing his gear.”
“Cardiff, sir?”
“Alun’s father. Rides with Jennison sometimes, me other times, himself sometimes.” He gestured toward Beans. “You met Alun, yesterday. Isn’t that right, John?”
“Yes, sir,” Beans said. “Alun was the one racing …”
“I know.” Alistair had heard enough. The black mare was dead, probably feeding catfish by now somewhere on the river’s bottom, but that girl, Maura, was all right. And so was he. Thanks to those wharf rats by the landing.
“Well, you shall stay here,” said Shea. From the tone of his voice, Alistair knew there was no room to debate and that “captain” was not an honorary rank. “Till you’re on your feet.”
Still, Alistair knew he could not, should not, accept. “Thank you, kindly, sir, but …”
“But nothing. That’s the way it will be. I will send my manservant to the Johnson House to fetch your belongings. Mister Benedict, you are welcome here, too.”
“Captain Shea, your generosity knows no bounds, but I cannot accept.” Beans turned to Alistair, smiling. “It’s better this way. We’re here on business, and I can conduct much business in the lobby of the hotel. But you stay here, old chum. Just for a few days.” His eyes narrowed, and Alistair gave a slight nod. He knew what Beans meant. Stay here. Learn about the town, about Captain Shea. About those redlegs he commanded. “I will telegraph your uncle of everything that has happened.”
“No telegraph, I am afraid,” Captain Shea said. “Lawrence is not as progressive as you might think.”
Beans nodded. “Well, I’ll write an old-fashioned letter.”
“You’ll want to catch up with your friend, Mister Benedict,” said the captain, “but don’t keep him up too long. He needs rest. I will see you downstairs in forty minutes for supper.” Shea fetched his pipe and strode down the room. “It’s settled,” he said.
When his footsteps had faded, Beans rose. “Nothing is settled,” he whispered hoarsely. “Yet.”
Chapter Fifteen
The recruitment camp stood on a vacant lot along the west side of New Hampshire Street. Green kids mostly, living in canvas tents—those who owned tents, anyway—trying to learn how to drill like regular soldiers. Not many soldiers, though, and most of the men in Lawrence called those stationed here “babes.” Indeed, few looked older than Alistair. A block up and over on Massachusetts Street, Negro soldiers in blue uniforms camped and drilled. Black Yankees. Honest Abe had promised these boys freedom, and they’d decided that was something worth fighting for. These were the Second Kansas Colored Regiment, under the command of the Reverend Captain Samuel Snyder, a white man. Beans figured they were all brag, though, and when the first shots were fired, those darkies and their Abolitionist captain would turn tail and skedaddle.
For as much talk as Quantrill’s men had heard about Lawrence—headquarters for Jim Lane, the Free State City, the worst city in Kansas—it turned out to be not much of a town. Oh, it had plenty of people, a tad shy of three thousand, but Lawrence was really small. Downtown stretched no more than a few blocks. Some hardware stores, a gun shop run by a man named Palmer, saloons, farm stores, and a fancy, two-story mercantile known as R & B’s, which carried everything and then some, including figs in air-tights, even cove oysters. A furniture store, an icehouse, a bank, not to mention an ice-cream shop and a photographic studio. The most annoying spot was Storm’s Farm Machinery since every time Beans or Alistair happened by there, someone was singing or playing “John Brown’s Body.” Yankee flags hung in every window.
Outside the business district, houses, from three-story mansions to prairie soddies, were scattered along the open prairie and rolling hills. A deep ravine began just beyond the northwestern slope of Mount Oread and cut through the city, dividing Lawrence into east and smaller west sections, running all the way to the river.
Behind Jim Lane’s home on a short avenue just off Eighth Street, a massive cornfield looked like it would produce a fine crop come harvest time, barring hail or hell. That was in West Lawrence. Also in West Lawrence was the mayor’s house, just past Sixth Street, closer to the river and another ravine. The key, however, would be East Lawrence.
They’d have to take care of those soldiers. Just a few buildings down Massachusetts Street, past Seventh Street, stood the armory. They’d need to take that, too. Quickly. And capture the Eldridge House. That was the hotbed of Abolitionists, redlegs, jayhawkers, politicians, travelers, anyone who wanted to be somebody in Kansas. That’s where Beans Kimbrough spent most of his evenings, laughing at Conor Shea’s jokes, sharing brandy and cigars with Jim Lane, former Governor Charles Robinson, Provost Marshal Alexander Banks, Card Cardiff, and many other residents and travelers. Sometimes Beans would go to the edge of town, past the old California Road, and drink at Dulinsky’s Tavern. Mentally taking names and notes.
Alastair kept a list of names hidden in the Bible he left on his bedside table. On the top were the words Who We Want.
Right below that, one name topped the list, in capital letters and twice underlined:
JIM LANE, West Lawrence, near cornfield. And immediately below that: Capt. C. Shea, middle road off Tenth, foot of Mt. Oread.
The Sheas lived in East Lawrence.
* * * * *
Summer, hot and ugly, had sent spring into the deepest recesses of memories. Alistair had moved back in the Johnson House, but he still saw much of Maura Shea, practically every day. He stood in front of the mirror in his room, combing back his hair, watching the reflection of Beans Kimbrough, who laid on his bed, back propped up against the pillows and headboard, legs crossed, smoking a pipe, grinning that miserable smirk of his.
“Where’s she takin’ you this time, pard?” Beans asked.
“A corral.” He tossed the comb on the dresser.
“What on earth for?”
Alistair grabbed his hat. “We’re supposed to be buying cattle.”
Beans drew deeply on the stem, holding in the smoke for a moment, then slowly exhaling. Finally he laid the pipe on the table, swung his long legs off the bed, and rose. “You’re bright for a Clay County cuss, Alistair. I’ll come with you.”
He couldn’t hide the frown, which caused Beans to slap his thighs. “You don’t want me to come?”
“Come along. I don’t care.”
“The hell you don’t.” The smile vanished. Beans stepped closer. “Her pa was at Osceola. Her pa stole your mare, or one of his raiders did, anyhow. She and her entire family’s Kansas dirt. Scum of the earth. Best you remember that. Best you recollect Lucy and Cally sweatin’ in that hell hole back in Kansas City.”
“I don’t aim to forget that.” He stormed out of the room, slamming the door in Beans’ face.
Downstairs, he wanted to swing inside the saloon, get a bracer of rye, but Maura stood waiting in the lobby, dressed in pink calico, beaming with a lustrous smile. She rose off the sofa, and he faked a smile, taking her hands and pulling her into a brotherly embrace.
“Are you …?” She stopped, and Alistair knew why.
“Mind if I tag along with y’all?” Beans asked as he bounded down t
he stairs.
“Not at all.” A lie. Not even a good one.
Beans started to grin, but it died as quickly as the question Maura Shea had been about to ask. He stared over their shoulders, and, slowly, Alistair turned.
“The more the merrier,” Maura tried.
Alun Cardiff stood just beyond the doorway, on the boardwalk, smiling awkwardly. He stepped through the batwing doors. Nine in the morning, and already it was too hot to keep the regular doors closed. The doors flapped behind him, and he removed the kepi, revealing that bright, carrot-colored mane.
His blue trousers matched the trim of his kepi. The blouse was darker, with shiny brass buttons, and he wore a white shirt underneath. His black boots showed the signs of rigorous waxing, although the spurs didn’t appear to have much use, and he carried a revolver on his hip, the flap fastened.
“Alun’s coming with us,” Maura said.
“If that meets your approval,” the redhead said.
“Of course,” Beans said. “Like Miss Maura says … ‘more the merrier.’”
“Great.” Alun relaxed instantly. “I have a buggy just outside.”
* * * * *
“I didn’t know you were in this man’s army,” Beans said. He sat in the front next to Alun, who flicked the reins. Alistair and Maura rode in the back seat. The top was up, providing some protection from the heat. “Do you serve with Miss Maura’s father?”
“No,” young Cardiff responded. “I’m with the Fourteenth Kansas. We’re stationed here.”
“Oh, so you’re with that group behind New Hampshire?”
“For now.” Alun nodded. “They say we’ll likely be assigned to Jennison.”
“Doc Jennison?” Beans nodded firmly. “Now, there’s a good man.”
Beside Alistair, Maura whispered something. Beans couldn’t catch the words, but the bitterness was unmistakable.
“When are you likely to join Jennison’s bunch?” Beans asked.
“There’s no telling. Right now, they say we’re supposed to guard the town.”
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