His next stop was the offices of the St. Louis Enquirer, which were located in a two-story brownstone on Market Street. This stretch of cobblestoned road between the levee and the square was the heart of the St. Louis business district. There were mercantiles, milliners, haberdashers, bootmakers, gunsmiths, land agents, doctors, dentists, and most of all lawyers; Delgado thought that there were more lawyers per capita in the United States than in any other country in the world. Every politician he could think of had started his professional life before the bar. He supposed this plethora of barristers was a perfectly natural byproduct of a democratic society where the people enjoyed the liberty to handle their own affairs without governmental interference. On the other side of every blessing lurked a curse.
Most of the ground floor of the Enquirer's building had been given over to the production of the city's foremost penny press. A pair of steam-operated printing presses were making a deafening racket, and Delgado had to shout at the top of his lungs to be heard by the ink-stained apprentice whom he asked about Stephen Maitland's whereabouts. The boy pointed skyward, indicating the second floor, and Delgado ascended a steep, narrow flight of stairs, and found Maitland at his cluttered kneehole desk, scribbling furiously.
Maitland was a thin, gawky man in a rumpled tweed suit. A dour expression on his pale, angular face, he looked up at Delgado, with a pair of spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose; he was annoyed by the interruption. There was no heat in this big room filled with desks except that produced by a coal-burning stove at the far end; Maitland's grip was limp and cold as he took Delgado's proffered hand. He recognized Delgado's name immediately, and the annoyance turned into alarm as he looked about him like a conspirator who has just heard menacing footsteps behind him.
"What . . . what do you want, Mr. McKinn?"
"I wanted to thank you for your part in getting my letters to—"
Maitland put a finger to his lips, then crooked a finger, and Delgado leaned closer over the desk.
"No one here knows about this, Mr. McKinn, and I would very much like to keep it that way if you don't mind."
"I don't mind," said Delgado, mystified.
"You must realize that my . . . my relationship with Clarisse is . . . is a secret. Sterling was the only one who knew."
"I see. It might interest you to know that she will soon be a free person. Jacob Bledsoe has pledged to provide her with manumission papers."
Maitland stared at him, as though he had suddenly lost his ability to comprehend the English language. "I . . . I think you must misconstrue me, sir."
"Perhaps I do."
"You see, our relationship is a clandestine one not because she is a bondwoman, but . . . but because I am . . . I am a married man."
"Ah," said Delgado. He didn't know what else to say.
Maitland folded his spectacles, stowed them away in a drawer, and got to his feet. "Please come with me, Mr. McKinn."
"Certainly."
Delgado followed him downstairs and out onto the crowded sidewalk. They started walking in the direction of the levee, where the smokestacks of dozens of riverboats resembled a forest of tree trunks in the city's haze. Now that he was away from the Enquirer, Maitland seemed much more relaxed.
"She's a wonderful woman, isn't she, Mr. McKinn?" He sighed.
"Clarisse? Why yes, I suppose she must be. I don't know her all that well, but . . ."
"She is very . . . very passionate. My . . . my wife is not. You might say Helen is just the opposite, if the truth be known."
"Ah," said Delgado again, suddenly wishing he was elsewhere. He wondered what Clarisse could possibly see in this nervous beanpole of a man. She was an exotic and attractive woman in her own right, and she could have had her pick of men—especially if she was content to play the role of mistress. He wondered, too, why Maitland was confiding in him, a total stranger. Perhaps because he had no one else to talk to.
"If it ever got out that I, that we . . ." Maitland shuddered, and it wasn't the cold January wind that made him do so. "It's not that she is a Negress. No, not at all."
Maitland's tone of voice convinced Delgado that the man was lying; Clarisse's race was at least part of the problem. In this place, and in this day and age, Maitland would be ostracized if it became known that he had a black mistress. He might have gotten away with it in New Orleans, but then the Crescent City was very cosmopolitan.
Maitland came to an abrupt halt and clutched Delgado's arm. "I . . . I love her, you know. Have no doubt of that." He blushed and looked away. "The fact that Mr. Bledsoe intends to free her is not good news, actually. No, not good news by any means. She might decide to leave St. Louis now. She might go north. Dear God, I could lose her. I . . . I know it's terribly selfish of me to think that way, but . . . but I'd just as soon she remained a slave. I mean, it's not as though Mr. Bledsoe mistreats her."
Delgado grimaced. He was beginning not to like Stephen Maitland.
"Clarisse is devoted to Sarah Bledsoe," he said. "And Sarah will soon be my wife."
Maitland blinked his owlish eyes at Delgado, slow to comprehend. "You don't approve, do you, Mr. McKinn?"
"Frankly, no."
"I have no right to ask this of you, but I . . . I am, you might say, a prisoner of my own desires. Where Clarisse is concerned I do not seem to have a will of my own. She has bewitched me."
"I don't know where my wife and I will reside," said Delgado, anticipating precisely what Maitland was about to put to him.
"If . . . if it's here in St. Louis . . . ?"
Delgado thought, How did I get myself into this? Grimacing, he nodded. "As far as I am concerned, what Clarisse does is none of my business, and never will be. Your secret will be safe with me."
Overwhelmed with gratitude, Maitland clasped his hand.
"Thank you!" he gushed. "Thank you, Mr. McKinn! If there is ever . . . I mean, if I can ever be of any service to you . . ."
Delgado nodded wearily. He could not imagine how Maitland ever could be of service to him.
They continued walking east, toward the river. "I owed Sterling my job at the newspaper," explained Maitland. "He was my . . . my friend. I don't have many friends."
Brows knit, Delgado was the one to stop in his tracks this time. Maitland took several steps before he realized that he was walking alone, then turned.
"Twice you've used the past tense when referring to him," said Delgado.
Maitland's eyes got bigger. "You didn't know? You haven't heard?"
My God, thought Delgado, suddenly cold to the marrow of his bones.
"We . . . we only just got the news a few days ago," said Maitland. He pressed his lips tightly together, and his eyes watered up. "Sterling was killed in California."
Delgado looked beyond Maitland, at the riverboat smokestacks, remembering the occasion aboard the Sultana when he had first made Sterling's acquaintance.
He took a deep breath. "How did it happen?"
"Come back to the office with me. I've kept all his dispatches. Would . . . would you care to see them?"
"Yes, I would. Thank you."
They returned to the Enquirer. Maitland removed the dispatches from a locked desk drawer, handling them almost reverently. They had been folded and creased and stained and in some cases torn—Delgado felt sure they had come a long way over rough terrain under usually poor conditions.
"I'll leave you alone," said Maitland. He could tell that Delgado was deeply moved. "Feel free to take as long as you like."
"Thank you."
The dispatches were in order according to date, and Delgado settled back with a deep sigh and proceeded to read them through.
General Kearny left Santa Fe near the end of September with three hundred dragoons, Lt. Emory and his topographical engineers, a battery of mountain howitzers, and one very witty and observant reporter. After ten days on the trail they met the famed mountain man Kit Carson, who, with twenty other adventurers, were also bound for California. The
y had heard tell of the Bear Flag Revolt by the American residents and were looking for some excitement. Kearny persuaded Carson to act as his guide.
The terrain soon became too rough for wagons, so Kearny packed his supplies on mules and pressed on. His men were often short of food and water as they crossed first the desert and then the mountains. But Kearny's dragoons were tough characters, hardened by long months of patrolling and campaigning on the high plains, and they were well-trained, highly disciplined troops. Sterling was full of praise for them. He heaped many superlatives upon these soldiers, and upon their commanding officer.
Finally, reaching California in early December, Kearny paused at a ranch owned by a man named Warner, where he learned that Commodore Stockton had seized the port of San Diego. Frémont and the Bear Flag rebels controlled Monterey to the north. That left the Mexican loyalist under Captain Juan Flores at Los Angeles with the enemy above and below him. By all accounts the Californians were in dire straits. Flores could muster only four hundred men, and had less than a thousand rounds of ammunition to distribute. It seemed, wrote Sterling, that California was destined to become part of the United States of America, and there was precious little the Californians could do about it.
Kearny sent a message to San Diego, informing Commodore Stockton of his whereabouts, and Stockton promptly dispatched Captain Archibald Gillespie with forty men to rendezvous with the First Dragoons. Kearny met Gillespie on the road and discovered that a detachment of Californian lancers had been tailing the Americans from San Diego. The general ordered an attack at dawn, December 6th. He was confident of victory. Too confident, wrote Sterling, for his men were exhausted, and their mounts were on their last legs. Still, Gillespie and Carson were all for battle, and the numbers were stacked heavily in favor of the Americans.
The dragoons roused themselves at two A.M. and mounted their motley assortment of mules and horses. Because of the condition of their mounts, the dragoons reached the position of the lancers in a piecemeal fashion, only to discover that the dampness of the bitterly cold morning had wet the powder in the firearms. The Californians struck back with a bold countercharge, and put their lances to good use. The saber-wielding dragoons could not withstand their charge, and only the arrival of Kearny's artillery saved the day. The lancers retired in good order, and Kearny, reported Sterling, was left with one very bloody nose. Eighteen Americans were dead, including a pair of captains, Moore and Johnston, with whom Sterling had often enjoyed a round or two of whist. Of the seventy-five Californians engaged in the battle, only one lost his life.
Though left in possession of the field of battle, Kearny knew it had been a Pyrric victory. He also knew his troops were in no condition to pursue the enemy. As it turned out, he didn't have to. Moving slowly westward, Kearny found himself besieged by the lancers at Rancho San Bernardo. The arrival of a relief force sent out by Commodore Stockton drove the pesky Californians away. On December 12th, wrote Sterling, he arrived at San Diego with the First Dragoons and got his first look at the Pacific Ocean.
Right away sparks flew between Kearny and Stockton. The former claimed to have orders from Washington that made him supreme commander of American forces in California. Stockton, having gotten there first and conquered San Diego and a large chunk of southern California, refused to cede authority. He did not question Kearny's orders, but argued that they had been rendered inoperative. The plans for a campaign against the Californians at Los Angeles was his, and by thunder he would lead it.
Toward the end of December the Americans moved north, six hundred strong. Sterling had enjoyed his fortnight in balmy San Diego and was sorry that the war had to interfere with his sightseeing. Still, he had a job to do, and he rode north with the army.
Captain Flores made plans to ambush the Americans when they crossed the San Gabriel River. Although aware of the presence of the enemy, Stockton tried to force the crossing without waiting for artillery covering fire, as Kearny advised. By sheer weight of numbers the Americans forced the Californians back. Flores reluctantly ordered a withdrawal. Stockton urged his men to press their advantage and drove the Californians before them. While Stockton's battlefield judgment left something to be desired, wrote Sterling, the man's courage was beyond reproach; he had been in the thick of the action from start to finish.
That night, according to Sterling's final dispatch, the Americans camped in the hills north of the San Gabriel. Spirits were high, because in the morning they would push on to Los Angeles, and no one expected Flores to put up much of a fight. Surely, tomorrow the Stars and Stripes would fly over Government House, and President Polk would finally have California, his heart's desire. The United States would stretch from coast to coast, and America's "Manifest Destiny" would be realized. As a good Whig, wrote Sterling, I suppose I should not feel quite so exhilarated.
Those were his last words.
Delgado rubbed his eyes and looked up to see Maitland approaching.
"How did he die?"
"Some of the Californians slipped back to the river that night," explained Maitland. "They fired a few shots at the campfires. A bullet struck Sterling at the base of the skull and killed him instantly. I'm told he probably never knew what hit him."
Feeling drained, empty, Delgado muttered his thanks, left the dispatches on Maitland's desk, and walked out of the building.
He aimlessly wandered the streets of St. Louis for several hours, missing his friend terribly. Poor Sterling, killed in a war he had opposed, and so far from home.
Chapter Twelve
"You will meet me on Bloody Island."
1
That evening the boy from the livery brought Brent Horan's answer to the Bledsoe house. On the back of Delgado's card Horan had written: Tomorrow.
The next morning Delgado rented a horse at the same livery and rode alone to Blackwood.
To the very end Jeremy insisted he was a fool to go in the first place, a bigger fool to go alone, and finally an even bigger fool to go unarmed. Delgado was certain he was in no danger.
"Honor means everything to Horan," he said. "He may still want to kill me. I suppose that's why I'm going, to find that out. But he won't shoot me down in cold blood."
"At least take your derringer along."
"No."
"You're too stubborn for your own good, Del."
"I'm not going to give him any excuse."
"Brent Horan doesn't need an excuse. I know him better than you do. He is unpredictable. And I would not stake my life on his honor."
"Why do you hate him so much?"
Jeremy's lips thinned. "It is something that happened a long time ago. Maybe I'll tell you about it. Someday."
Delgado didn't press. Whatever secret Jeremy was guarding, it had obviously been a turning point in his friend's life, an event that had colored the rest of his days, and not for the better. And Delgado had a feeling that as much as Jeremy blamed Brent Horan for whatever had happened, he blamed himself as much or more.
The morning was cold and clear, but the sun felt warm on Delgado's frozen cheeks as he rode out of St. Louis, past the great clearings where the snow was piled high enough to conceal the unsightly tree stumps. Soon he came to the old dark woods marking the perimeter of the Horan estate. Passing down the green tunnel of trees, he shuddered involuntarily as he passed the spot where, six months ago, he and Jeremy had found Talbott, the slave catcher, bringing the runaway field hand he had just killed out of the forest.
At long last he came to the Horan mansion. A black youth loped around the side of the house to hold his horse, and an old, white-haired house servant greeted him with grave reserve at the door. Delgado introduced himself and said that Brent Horan was expecting him. The old man nodded, appropriated Delgado's hat, coat, and gloves, and led him to the doors of the front parlor. The house was as cold and silent as a tomb.
Horan was sitting in a wing chair near the hearth, clad in a brown riding suit, his feet, encased in knee-high black boots polished to a high
sheen, extended toward the fire. The drapes were pulled closed over the windows, and the fire provided the only illumination in the room, and without the sunshine the room seemed colder than it really was.
"Mr. McKinn's here to see you, suh," said the old man.
"Get out."
The old man slipped back, pulling the door gently shut.
Horan didn't look around. He continued to stare into the fire. A gentleman would have risen to greet his guest, but Delgado hadn't expected cordiality, so he crossed the room to stand near enough to the hearth to thaw his frozen limbs.
"What do you want from me?" asked Horan.
Delgado turned to face him—and was shocked by the man's appearance. Clearly, it was true. Whatever mysterious ailment had leeched the life, little by little, out of Daniel Horan now had Brent in its grasp. In six months Horan appeared to have aged ten or fifteen years. He was gaunt, his cheeks hollow, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets. His skin had a grayish, translucent quality. His hair was streaked with white at the temples. Deep lines bracketed a mouth etched in pain.
Horan smiled thinly at the look on Delgado's face. "I'm sure you've heard that I am ill. No condolences are necessary."
Even though this was Brent Horan, Delgado hated to see anyone consumed by disease and dying by inches, especially someone so young.
"What do the doctors say?" he asked.
Horan shrugged, winced, and turned his attention back to the flames. "The slaves say it is voodoo. That someone has put a curse on me. They are not, I might add, brokenhearted."
"What do you think?"
"I don't think. I know. I am being poisoned."
Delgado recalled Jeremy telling him that Brent was slowly poisoning his father. If that was true, then this was surely justice in the Old Testament sense of the word.
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