Preacher

by William W. Johnstone

  “Happy?” Eby said. He laughed gruffly. “Woman, what the hell do I care whether or not she’s happy. She’s a slave. My slave. It don’t make no difference to me whether she’s happy or not. Now, you go upstairs and get her down here like I said. Else I’ll get the sheriff on you.”

  “There is no need for that, Mr. Eby,” Etta Claire said. “I’ll bring her down to you.”

  “And if she’s got ny clothes or anything that’s hers, have her bring them too. We won’t be comin’ back.”

  When Etta Claire went upstairs to fetch Jennie, Eby picked up the bottle from which she had offered to pour a drink earlier. Pulling the cork with his teeth, he spat the cork out, then turned the bottle up to his lips, taking several Adam’s-apple-bobbing drinks before pulling it down. Some of the wine dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt, but the shirt was so stained that it was scarcely noticeable. He ran the back of his hand across his lips, belched, then looked over toward the parlor itself, where several of the girls were looking back at him with a mixture of fright and revulsion.

  “What the hell are you whores alookin’ at?” he asked gruffly.

  With a little gasp of fear, the women withdrew to the other side of the room.

  “Mister, are you really going to take Jennie from us?” one of the girls asked.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” Eby said.

  “Who the hell thinks he’s so important he can pull a man away from a woman before he’s even finished?” a loud, angry voice said. The sound of heavy footfalls could be heard clumping down the stairs.

  Eby pulled his pistol and cocked it, then held it level with the foot of the stairs.

  “Where are you, you son of a bitch?” the voice declared. “Me and you are going to have . . .” At that moment the irate customer appeared at the foot of the stairs. At the same moment, he saw the pistol leveled at him and the anger left his face, to be replaced by fear. He held his hands out in front of him. “Hold it, hold it,” he said.

  “You goin’ to make any trouble?” Eby asked.

  “No, sir. Not a bit of it,” the man said meekly. “Not a bit of it. You want her, you take her. She’s all yours.”

  “Jennie!” Eby called. “Jennie, get your nigra ass down here now before I start tearin’ up this place.”

  “Nigra?” the customer said, looking back up the stairs. “You tellin’ me that girl is a nigra?”

  A moment later Etta Claire and Jennie came down the stairs together. Jennie was clutching a cloth bundle. Tears were streaming down her face.

  “Well, now,” Eby said. “What’s the cryin’ about? You didn’t think you’d come here to live, did you?”

  Jennie didn’t answer him.

  “Mr. Eby, she has grown so close to the girls. Can she please tell them good-bye?” Etta Claire asked.

  Eby picked up the wine bottle. “Yeah, she can tell ’em good-bye,” he said. “I don’t ever want it said that I’m a evil-spirited man.” He drank from the bottle as, one by one, the girls came over to hug Jennie. All were crying, including Etta Claire, when Eby led her through the door.

  “Mr. Eby, will I ever be comin’ back here?” Jennie asked as they left the house.

  “No,” Eby said.

  Jennie sobbed aloud.

  “Ain’t no sense in cryin’ over it. That ain’t goin’ to change anything,” Eby said.

  Eby thought of the close call he’d had on the attempt to hold up the riverboat. Too many of his operations had taken place within fifty to sixty miles of Cape Girardeau. It was time for him to move on.

  “I’m glad to see you ain’t got ugly yet. Whores gets mighty ugly after a while, so iffen you’re goin’ to be of any use to me, I had to catch you while you was still comely.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you learned to enjoy sportin’ yet?”

  “Sportin’?”

  “Lyin’ with a man. You learned to enjoy it yet?”

  “I ... I don’t enjoy it,” Jennie said. “But I can do it.”

  Eby laughed gruffly. “Well, hell, girl, you been doin’ it for what, five or six years now? I would expect you can do it. But that ain’t what I ask. What I ask is, have you learned to enjoy it enough to make the man enjoy it?”

  “They seem to like it.”

  “That’s good. From time to time, maybe I’ll teach you some of the things that men like,” Eby said, subconsciously grabbing his crotch. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  In the whole time she had been with Younger, he had never been with her. She was certain it was because of Mrs. Younger, and for that she was glad. But there was no Mrs. Eby, which meant there was nothing to keep him away from her.

  “I asked if you would like that,” Eby repeated.

  The little trick Carol had taught her, thinking of Art when she was with someone, had helped her get through some very disagreeable men. She was sure it would work with Eby as well.

  “Yes, sir,” she said dispiritedly. “I would like that.”

  “Yeah, I thought you would. Especially since I’m takin’ you up to St. Louis, where you’ll need to know more things. St. Louis is a fearsome big city and the men up there can’t be pleased as easy as the men down here. But I figure with what I can teach you, with more men to be customers, why, you’ll be makin’ a lot more money in no time.”

  19

  With a population in excess of eight thousand people, St. Louis looked particularly impressive as it was approached from the river. It spread out for some distance along the banks of the river and even back away from the river. Some of the buildings were as tall as three stories high. Art thought all of the buildings were handsome, whether they were made of brick, wood, mud, or stone. Regardless of their construction, they all glistened brightly, painted as they were by whitewash made from the limestone that was so plentiful in the area.

  Even before turning toward shore, Captain Timmons signaled his presence by blowing the two-toned whistle. His whistle was answered by the firing of cannon from ashore.

  Art, too recently in battle, where the firing of cannon meant more than a mere signal, jumped at the sound of the shore guns, but he recovered quickly. Sheepishly, he looked around the boat, then saw Dewey looking at him.

  “Ain’t nothin’ to be embarrassed by, boy,” Dewey said. “Only them that’s actual fit in a battle knows enough to be a’feared of ’em.”

  Art nodded, but he didn’t answer. No answer was needed.

  Captain Timmons turned his boat toward the west, then ran it into the bank, putting the bow hard against the shore. A deckhand was standing at the bow, and carrying a line, he jumped down onto the riverbank as soon as the boat landed. The line was attached to a larger hawser, which he pulled off the boat, then tied around a post that was put in the ground for just that purpose.

  Timmons signaled the engine room to stop the engine, and Dewey closed the throttle, then vented the steam. It was an impressive arrival.1

  The landing of a steamboat was a great event in the lives of the citizens of St. Louis, and a significant number of them had come down to watch. Art’s final job before reporting to the purser for his pay was to spread a tarpaulin over the remaining ricks of wood in order to keep them out of the weather. Even as he was attending to that, the gangplank went down across the front of the bow, and the stevedores came on board to begin unloading the cargo.

  “Art? Art, is that you?”

  Looking up toward the bald, bearded man who had called out to him, Art recognized Tony, the man he had worked with at the wagon-freight company.

  “It’s me, all right,” Art said, smiling at his old friend.

  “James! James, come look who we have here!” Tony said.

  James came over and stuck out his hand. Remembering that he had once fought with James, Art was a little hesitant, but James didn’t give him a chance. He grabbed his hand and pumped it enthusiastically.

  “Art, m’lad, sure n’ ’tis a fine thing to be seein’ you. How have you been?” Jam
es asked.

  “I have been fine,” Art replied.

  “Did you go to war?” Tony asked.

  “Yes. I was at New Orleans.”

  “Ahh, I heard we gave the English ‘what for’ at the Battle of New Orleans,” Tony said. “It’s too bad the war was already over.”

  “What?” Art asked, surprised by the comment. “You mean the war is over?”

  “You haven’t heard? The Americans and the English signed a treaty ending the war. And, as it turns out, almost a month before the fight at New Orleans.”

  “Before the fight at New Orleans?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn,” Art said. “Then that means all those men died for nothing.”

  “All what men? I heard we didn’t have but just a few kilt,” Tony said.

  “That’s right, we only lost a few. One of them was my friend, Mr. Harding. But I was also referring to the English. They left so many of their dead on the field you could have walked nearly half a mile on them without your feet touching the ground.”

  “Aye, ’tis bad all right, even though the English be blackhearts, every mother’s son of them,” James said.

  “Here, you two! You ain’t bein’ paid to palaver!” Mr. Gordon said, shouting at Tony and James.

  “Mr. Gordon, look who is back,” Tony said.

  Gordon looked toward Art, then acknowledged him with a nod. “If you plannin’ on comin’ back to work for me, boy, keepin’ them two from their labors ain’t the way to do it.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Gordon.”

  “Boy, what about we meet later for a beer?” Tony asked.

  “Irish Tavern?”

  “Aye, lad. Irish Tavern, same as always.”

  “I’ll be there,” Art said as his two friends went back to work.

  Before going ashore, Art and the other crewmen lined up on the afterdeck to receive their pay from the purser. Captain Timmons stood by, smoking his pipe and watching in silence, until Art stepped up to receive his pay, which was five dollars.

  “Boy, a word with you,” Timmons called, beckoning with his pipe.

  “Aye, Cap’n?”

  Timmons had a scowl on his face. “Dewey tells me you ain’t at all interested in bein’ a river man, that you was just using the boat as a means of getting to St. Louis.”

  Sheepishly, Art looked down at his feet. “Yes, sir, I have to confess that’s true. I’m sorry if I misled you.”

  Unexpectedly, Timmons smiled. “No need to apologize,” he said. “I admit, I would like to have you stay on. You’re a good hand and there’s no doubt in my mind but that you would make a fine river pilot if you wanted to, and set your mind to it. But I don’t believe you can push a rope. If you don’t want to be a pilot, there ain’t nothin’ I can do to change your mind.”

  “Being a riverboat pilot is about as noble a profession as I can think of,” Art said. “But I’ve got a hankering to see the creature, and I made a promise to a dead friend to do just that.”

  Sticking his pipe back in his mouth, Timmons nodded. “Then, boy, you do that,” he said. “A promise made to a dead friend is one you ought to keep.” He stuck his hand out. “Good luck to you, Art. And if there’s ever anything I can do for you, you just get in touch with me.”

  “Thanks,” Art said. “I appreciate that.”

  * * *

  Lucas Younger was one of the many who had come from the town to stand on the riverbank and watch the boat land. He was totally shocked to see that Art was one of the boat crew. Seeing the boy renewed the anger Lucas felt. After all, it was out of the goodness of his own heart that he had taken Art in. And how did Art repay him? By taking Jennie away from him, that’s how. The best moneymaking scheme he ever had was gone because of this boy’s interference.

  I should’ve left you lyin’ facedown in the shit and the mud behind the tavern in New Madrid, he thought. If it weren’t for you, I’d still have Jennie.

  As he thought of Jennie, he rubbed himself. He had never personally taken his pleasure with the young girl. He’d wanted to, but he’d held back because he knew Bess would raise hell with him.

  Well, Bess was dead now, having died of the fever during the winter. She was dead, Jennie was gone, and he was left with an empty wallet, an empty bed, and no prospects. All because of Art.

  Of course Younger had managed to turn a little profit on the boy, selling him to a slave hunter. It had been amazingly easy to pull it off. All he had to do was claim that Art was his slave. The burden lay with Art, then, to prove that he wasn’t.

  He wondered if that would work again.

  * * *

  “Seamus! Look who has come back to us,” James called as he, Tony, and Art entered the Irish Tavern that evening. “’tis Art himself, a hero now he is, havin’ fought the black-heart Englishmen at New Orleans.”

  “Welcome back, lad,” Seamus said, greeting him warmly. “Find a table and it’s an Irish whiskey I’ll be bringin’ you.”

  Art held his hand up. “Whiskey is still a bit too strong for my taste. Beer will do.”

  “Then beer ’tis, with a bit o’ honey for sweetner if you need it,” Seamus teased good-naturedly.

  “Careful with the teasin’ now, Seamus,” James said. “I can tell you myself what the lad can do with a wee club.”

  The others laughed at James’s self-deprecating humor. The three friends sat at a table in the center of the tavern, Art choosing the seat that left his back to the front door.

  “So, tell us what it is like to be fightin’ in a war,” Tony said.

  “It’s noisy, frightening, noisy, cold, noisy, wet, and noisy,” Art said.

  “Would you be sayin’ it’s a bit noisy then?” James asked.

  The others laughed.

  “Well, guns do make noise,” Tony suggested.

  “Yes, but it’s not only the guns,” said Art. “It was a big army, and when you are around that many people all the time, half of ’em are talking, the other half are singing, coughing, belching, or farting, and no one is listening. There’s never a quiet moment.”

  “Well, that’s the way of it in civilization,” Tony said. “Now you take St. Louis. It’s a big, noisy city.”

  “True,” Art said. “That’s why I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving St. Louis? Sure’n you just got here, lad. Where would you be goin’, pray tell?”

  “If it’s your job you’re worryin’ about, we’ve already talked to Mr. Gordon. He’ll put you on if you want. Without firing James,” Tony said.

  “I appreciate your asking for me,” Art replied. “But I figure that as soon as I put together a few things I need, I’ll be headin’ west.”

  At that moment Lucas Younger entered the tavern, accompanied by the city sheriff and his deputy. Younger pointed to Art.

  “There he is, Sheriff. That’s my slave boy Art.”

  Hearing, and recognizing, Younger’s voice, Art spun around quickly. He started to reach for his Hawken rifle, which was leaning against the table.

  “Easy boy,” Tony said quietly, reaching out to put his hand on Art’s arm. “Your rifle’s not primed and their pistols are.”

  Tony was right. Both the sheriff and his deputy were holding charged pistols.

  The sheriff got a puzzled look on his face. “What do you mean that’s your slave boy?” he asked. “That boy’s no nigra.”

  “He’s Creole,” Younger said. “You can’t hardly tell Creoles from white folks. And he’s my slave. I got the paper right here to prove it.” Younger held up a sheet of paper.

  “Sheriff, I’m no slave,” Art said. “I don’t know what that paper is, but it’s wrong. And I’m not Creole, I’m white.”

  “White are you? Near ’bout all white folks have last names, but you don’t. You two, what’s his last name?” he asked Tony and James.

  “He ain’t never told us,” James said. “But that don’t make no never mind. You can look at him and tell he’s white.”

  “My last name is Grego
ry,” Art said. “You can check with General Jackson. I was a lieutenant in his army at New Orleans.”

  The sheriff laughed out loud. “You, a lieutenant? Now I know you are a’lyin’, boy. Ain’t no way someone as young as you would be a lieutenant.”

  “Read this here runaway notice,” Younger said, handing another paper to the sheriff. “It’ll prove I’m tellin’ the truth and the boy is lyin’.”

  “Keep an eye on ’im, Coy,” the sheriff said to his deputy. “Iffen he tries to run, shoot ’im.”

  “Yes, sir, Sheriff, I’ll do just that,” Coy replied, licking his lips and smiling at the prospect.

  The sheriff began to read. “It says here a slave boy by the name of Art, so light that he could pass, escaped from his master while working in a lime pit in Sainte Genevieve.” The sheriff looked over at Younger. “I thought you told me your name was Younger.”

  “That’s right.”

  “This here paper says he run away from a man named Matthews.”

  “That’s right. After the boy run away from me, I sold him to a slave chaser. The slave chaser found him, and sold him to a man by the name of Matthews. But all that bein’ said, the boy is still a slave and since Matthews ain’t here to press his claim, I’m goin’ to do it for ’im. Sort of a friendly arrangement between businessmen, so to speak.”

  The sheriff nodded, then glanced back at Art. “That true? Did you run away from Matthews?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .”

  “Ain’t no buts to it, boy,” the sheriff said. “If this be you”—he held up a piece of paper—“then you are a runaway slave. And it’s my duty to take you back to your master.”

  “Them’s my guns too,” Younger said, pointing toward the table. “The pistol and the rifle, he stole ’em both from me when he run away like he done.”

  “Sheriff, you know he’s lying now,” Tony said. “If he stole them guns from Younger there, how do you suppose he still has ’em? Ain’t no way this fella Matthews would let a slave boy keep guns like that.”

  “Ain’t my job to be supposin’ things like that,” the sheriff replied. “Mr. Younger here is makin’ all the charges. And since this boy done admitted that he run away from Matthews, well, I reckon I’ll be takin’ Younger’s word over that of the Creole.”