Wreaths of Glory

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Beans guffawed. “From what?”

  “Exactly.”

  They turned down Ninth Street.

  “Were you at Osceola?” Beans asked.

  Alistair’s stomach roiled.

  Maura leaned forward, saying softly: “I wish you would not bring up that unChristian …”

  Beans whirled. “UnChristian town, ma’am?”

  “Act,” she said, leaning back, eyes blazing. “That was a horrific evening. The worst, most uncivilized act of this entire unpleasantness.”

  Beans’ face relaxed. His eyes brightened. “Unpleasantness? Is that what you call this war?” Shaking his head, he nudged Alun’s shoulder. “Ask me, Osceola was a blight on this earth. It needed to be wiped off the face of Missouri. Full of slaveholders and Secesh. Not a human being among the entire population.”

  “How would you know?” Maura demanded. “Living in Ohio?”

  “Well, word gets around. We have newspapers in Dover, Miss Maura.”

  “Propaganda.”

  Beans made sure he was looking her right in the eye. “That’s a big word.”

  “It means …”

  “I know what it means, ma’am. Are you saying that newspapers lie?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “But your father was at Osceola.” It was not a question.

  “My father and I do not see eye to eye on many things.”

  Beans’ expression immediately saddened, and he went back to staring at the mules pulling the team. “I reckon I know how you feel,” he said, barely audible. “But you should …” His fingers tightened into balls, and he held his breath the longest time, finally blowing out a gust and laughing hollowly. “But this morning is too hot for a political debate. I get enough of that at the Eldridge. Look at those mules of yours, Alun. Reminds me of what Jim Lane once said, just the other night it was. We were talking about freeing slaves from Missouri trash, and Jim says … ‘I would just as soon buy a nigger as a mule.’ That’s something, if you ask me, coming from an Abolitionist.”

  “He’s no Abolitionist,” Maura said. “He is a demagogue, or might I say a devil.”

  “Your father speaks highly of him, Miss Maura.”

  “My father is no better.”

  Again, Beans’ fists clenched. “You should watch what you say of your pa, ma’am. One day, he could up and die on you.”

  “I thought we’d decided it was too hot to discuss politics,” Alistair said, to which Alun echoed: “Amen.”

  They had turned onto Massachusetts, heading toward South Park, passing the camp of Negro recruits.

  “There are true Abolitionists here, Alistair.” Maura leaned so close, he could smell the fragrance of the shampoo in her blonde hair. “Not everyone in this town is an opportunist or scoundrel. Many men and women here came from New England, and we truly believe that the Negroes should be free. There are good men, good women, Christian men, Christian women. Kind men.” She touched his arm. “Like you.”

  He wanted to tell her he was not kind at all, but he said nothing, just stared ahead. He could not even acknowledge Maura.

  They did not speak again until they reached the corral.

  * * * * *

  Wind bent the tall grass, and Alistair stared into that endless expanse of prairie. He turned, looking back toward town, and found Mount Oread. From here, he could see one of what the Yankees called “the forts,” but there didn’t appear to be any lookout stationed there this morning. Nor had he seen anyone there yesterday.

  A steer bawled, and, tugging his hat down so that the wind wouldn’t carry it away, he headed to the corral.

  Maura was calling his name excitedly. She rushed to him, grabbed his hand, urging him along. “Hurry, Jim,” she said. “I wanted you to meet Reginald.”

  “Is Reginald the cow?”

  She was about to pull his arm out of his socket. “No, silly.” She called out toward the corral: “Reginald!” Then, to Alistair, whispered: “I don’t care for much of what my father has done in this barbaric war, but there is some glory, some justice. Here.”

  A burly black man stepped off the lower corral post, and turned.

  “Reginald,” Maura said, “this is Jim Alistair, the cattle buyer I was telling you about. From Dover, Ohio.”

  “Mister …” The word died in Alistair’s throat, and he almost dropped his extended hand.

  Reginald was bigger, older, with weary eyes and a knotted brow. The last time Alistair had seen him had been in Osceola, at Beans Kimbrough’s house.

  “Hello, sir,” the man said hoarsely.

  “I’m …” Alistair wet his lips, trying to determine if Reginald had recognized him. “What kind of cattle are you selling?”

  “Got these two steers.”

  Quickly Alistair climbed onto the top of the corral, eyes locking on a brindle steer. He wanted his back to Reginald.

  “You raising beef?” he asked, then felt like an idiot. Of course the man raised cattle. Why else would he be meeting with a cattle buyer? Then Alistair felt sick, as if his bowels were about to release violently. Beans Kimbrough was approaching, talking, and Alistair slid his hand inside his vest, reaching for the hidden pocket pistol.

  “So you’re a cattle raiser? That’s fine. Just fine, indeed. I’m John Benedict, sir, of Dover, Ohio. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Reginald, isn’t that your name, boy?”

  “Yes, sir.” The slave spoke without emotion, like a man facing his executioner.

  “Where’s your ranch, boy?”

  “Betwixt Brooklyn and Baldwin City.”

  “I see. You married, Reginald?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s your woman’s name?”

  “Dilly.”

  “Dilly! Why, that’s a crackerjack name. I used to know a Dilly in Dover. Knew a Reginald, too. That’s something. That’s something, indeed. How’s those cattle looking, Jim?”

  Deftly Alistair hopped off the corral. Beans’ right hand was tucked deep inside the mule-ear pocket of his trousers, and Alistair knew he held his Derringer. Alun stood by the buggy, fidgeting with the harness on the team of mules. Maura beamed brightly at Alistair.

  “Listen … Reginald, isn’t it?” Alistair made a beeline, positioning him between the freed slave and Beans. “Those two steers look fine, just fine, but my uncle sent my partner, Mister Benedict, and me here to buy more than a couple of steers. Dover’s not much of a city, but we’ll need enough beef to supply restaurants and butcher shops all around the town and county. How long would it take you to get us, say, thirty head?”

  Reginald said nothing. He just stared over Alistair’s shoulder at Beans, looking as if he expected to be killed.

  “Once we have all the cattle, we can herd them across the Kaw and on into Kansas City.” Alistair was making all this up as he went, hoping he made sense, hoping no one caught him in a lie. “Freight them by rails up to Dover. The Dover yards will pay you top dollar. Whatever the market price is in Kansas City.”

  “That’s fantastic!” Maura exclaimed. “Reginald, you could get with the other freedmen south of the Wakarusa, couldn’t you? Could you find thirty steers for Jim … I mean, Mister Alistair?”

  “Reckon,” Reginald said flatly. “Take us six weeks, mayhap seven.”

  “That’ll be just fine, Reginald,” Beans said, stepping up, withdrawing his hand, empty, and extending it to his former slave. “You just stay on your farm between Brooklyn and Baldwin City then. Get those cattle ready. We’ll offer you top dollar. You won’t go anywhere, will you, boy?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’ll just keep a mind on getting those beeves?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Probably won’t even see anybody, you’ll be so busy, right, boy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “’Course, I
could pay you and Dilly a visit, see how things are coming along.”

  “Won’t need to, Mister … Benedict. I know my place.”

  Maura moved closer, frowning. “Reginald, your place is where you want it. You’re no longer a slave. You and Dilly are free. You understand that, don’t you? You can barter a deal with Mister Alistair and Mister Benedict, but you don’t have to.”

  “Yes’m. I understand all that.”

  Maura turned to Beans, almost spitting out the words. “And in case you have not noticed, Mister Benedict, Reginald is a man, not a boy.”

  Beans merely grinned.

  “Best be gettin’ back to Dilly and our place,” Reginald said. “You wants me to leave these beeves here, or takes ’em back with me.”

  “Take them, Reginald,” Alistair said dully. “Fatten them up. Fatter beef means fatter profits for you.”

  The old Negro moved, head hanging down, toward the corral. Beans sniggered, and walked back to the buggy.

  Alistair felt Maura’s fingers intertwine with his, and she squeezed.

  “Oh, Jim,” she said, “this is so wonderful.”

  “Yeah,” he managed to say. “Wonderful.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “We need to light a shuck.” The door to their hotel room slammed shut. “Now.”

  Alistair made a beeline for the armoire, finding his grip, his clothes, but Beans had casually flung off his hat, and flopped on the mattress, not even bothering to remove his brogans. “We ain’t goin’ nowhere, pard. Till Colonel Quantrill sends for us.”

  “Reginald will tell …”

  “That ol’ boy won’t say nothing. He knows better.” Beans found his pipe and tobacco pouch. “Besides, Dilly won’t let him get me hanged. She loves me. Yes, sir, Reginald and Dilly are good niggers. They’ll do right.” He pulled on the drawstrings of the pouch. “They know I’ll kill ’em if they don’t.”

  Knees turning weak, Alistair sank into the chair. “That’s a big gamble,” he said weakly.

  Beans tamped tobacco into the clay bowl, found a match, and struck it against the wall. “It’s no gamble at all.” Once he had the tobacco glowing, his tone serious, he said, losing that hayseed accent: “If I wasn’t certain, I’d be packing like you want. Last thing I desire, pard, is to get you killed. Or me.” Laughing, Beans picked up the newspaper he had liberated from the lobby of the hotel, and tossed it to Alistair. “Here I am spying for the Cause, and I’m still becoming more famous. Bottom right-hand corner.”

  The headline in the Leavenworth Conservative exclaimed:

  Barbaric Act by That Butcher Beans!

  Alistair read:

  Reports reached this office late yesterday evening of a bloody ambush of Federal forces near the Village of Westport, Missouri, on the afternoon of the sixteenth instant.

  The Ninth Kansas Cavalry, one hundred and fifty strong, were heading to their encampment when a band of bushwhackers charged out of the brush, screaming like the devil incarnates they are, pistols in both hands, reins in their teeth, sending heavy, deadly leaden balls with much devastating effect.

  Our noble Free State contingent tried to stand their ground, but these ruffians are experienced pistol fighters and equestrians of high renown. After a gallant stand, the Federals broke ranks and retreated for Westport, while the renegades circled the remnants and cut them down.

  It was afterward that the real horror began.

  When troops were organized in the village and sent back to the martyred battleground, what they found would sicken the strongest stomachs. Twenty heroes lay naked on the ground. All had been scalped, and most of those brave soldiers suffered other depredations too barbaric to describe in this newspaper. One note was found pinned to the chest of a fallen Kansan.

  “Killed by Beans Kimbrough,” the note read. “Remember Osceola.”

  Kimbrough, of course, is the butcher of several soldiers in a ghastly ambush in Clay County last autumn. His name is as reviled as the names of Quantrill, Todd, Mosby, Morgan, savage Indians to our west, and even Satan himself to our south. Or, perhaps, as we are beginning to believe, Beans Kimbrough is, indeed, Lucifer.

  Slowly Alistair lowered the paper. “You weren’t there.”

  “You should be a detective.” Beans snatched the paper, glanced at the headline again, and chuckled. “Probably Arch Clements’ idea of a joke. And it’s a good one. Next time I see him, I’ll have to buy Arch a Punch cigar.”

  “I still think we should hightail it for the Sni-A-Bar.”

  Beans tapped the pipe bowl on the table. “Our orders are to stay until we are sent for.”

  “Since when did you follow orders?”

  This time, Beans’ chuckles even caused Alistair to smile. Shaking his head in disbelief, Alistair sank back into the chair, reaching for the bottle of rye. “You’re going to get us both killed, Beans,” he said.

  “Well, we’ll die game. But not before that Independence Day celebration. I hear it’ll be one fine fandango. Pass me that bottle, old chum, won’t you?”

  * * * * *

  Lawrence turned out in its Sunday finest. Red, white, and blue bunting hung from each resplendent building along Massachusetts Street, and a brass band had gathered in front of the Eldridge. American flags waved from the hands of men, women, and children. The white-haired Methodist minister led the assembly—by Alistair’s guess, the whole damned town—in prayer, the mayor gave a quick speech, Jim Lane a longer one, and then the horns began blasting “Yankee Doodle Dandy” and the crowd followed the parade.

  Up the avenue, down Eighth Street for a block, then back down New Hampshire, all the way down to the City Hotel, and then up and over and down to the ferry and the flagpole.

  The Liberty Pole.

  It stood at the end of Massachusetts Street, where the ferry crossed the Kaw River, and where material was piled up for the new bridge the city had planned. A giant Stars and Stripes hung limp, for, on this rarest of Kansas days, the wind did not blow. Yet. Underneath the pole stood those raw recruits of the fourteenth Kansas, twenty-some-odd boys. Standing at the head of the bluecoats, musket on his shoulder, was Alun Cardiff. Just behind the bluecoats stood, at attention, the Negro troopers and their white preacher-captain.

  The band finished “The Battle Cry of Freedom,” and another preacher launched into his commands to God. To end the rebellion. To end slavery. To deliver everyone from evil. To smote Quantrill, Jefferson Davis, and Beans Kimbrough.

  At that, Beans nudged Alistair’s arm, and chuckled.

  Next came the Reverend Captain Snyder, but he spoke without anger, merely bowed his head and asked everyone to follow him in “The Lord’s Prayer.”

  As soon as the parson put an “Amen” onto his prayer, the mood around the riverfront changed. Alun Cardiff barked an order, the Kansas recruits did their best to turn and march off to the left to their commanders. The black soldiers then stepped forward, and began singing, their voices haunting, deep, and resonate. It was some spiritual that Alistair had never heard.

  When they had finished, they marched off behind the white soldiers.

  Another woman began singing, a cappella.

  Just as I am, without one plea

  But that thy blood was shed for me,

  And that thou bidd’st me to come to thee,

  O, Lamb of God, I come.

  To Alistair’s surprise, he heard Beans singing along with her. Alistair only mouthed the words. He couldn’t see through the crowd, to see who this woman was, and when she had finished, four men began bellowing “Rock of Ages.”

  After that, the crowd quieted, but then another voice began, and Alistair caught his breath. At first, he thought it was Lucy Cobb, but, no, this voice was softer, more polished.

  We shall meet but we shall miss him.

  There will be one vacant chair.

 
We shall linger to caress him

  While we breathe our ev’ning prayer.

  When one year ago we gathered,

  Joy was in his mild blue eye.

  Now the golden cord is severed,

  And our hopes in ruin lie.

  Other voices melded into one, but by then Alistair knew who was leading the crowd in “The Vacant Chair.” Beside him, Beans Kimbrough did not mouth the words, but shook his head, turning his attention to those blue-coated soldiers, black and white. He caught Alistair’s glance, and said: “That song seems to follow you like a stray dog.

  Alistair opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  The crowd had joined in.

  True, they tell us wreaths of glory

  Evermore will deck his brow,

  But this soothes the anguish only,

  Sweeping o’er our heartstrings now.

  Sleep today, O early fallen,

  In thy green and narrow bed.

  Dirges from the pine and cypress

  Mingle with the tears we shed.

  “Frank’s old lady was right,” Beans said softly. “Yankee song.”

  “Be careful,” Alistair warned, although no one nearby could have heard Beans’ comment.

  “But I reckon Miss Maura does sound a mite better than Miss Lucy. Don’t you reckon?”

  A silver-haired woman in blue and white dress turned, staring, smiling. Alistair remembered her face, but not her name. He had helped her carry some packages out of Fillmore’s Dry Goods to her wagon. Alistair gave her a friendly nod, and began singing the chorus.

  We shall meet, but we shall miss him.

  There will be one vacant chair.

  We shall linger to caress him

  While we breathe our ev’ning prayer.

  The lady’s head bobbed in approval before she resumed staring into the backs of hats and parasols.

  * * * * *

  By the time they had returned downtown, the streets were lined with tables piled high with food. Beef, potatoes, biscuits, cornbread, turkey, ham, fried chicken, squash, jellies, beans, corn, carrots, turnips, parsnips, pots of coffee, pitchers of lemonade, kegs of beer, jugs of wine. More pies, cakes, and cookies than Alistair had ever seen.