Antebellum BK 1

by Jeffry S. Hepple

  Stuart studied his friend’s face for several seconds. “As a Texan, and knowing it would be the ruination of the Southern economy, would you really go to war to free the slaves, Pea?”

  “No.” Paul shook his head. “But, as you said a minute ago, I agree with Sam Houston and I might go to war to preserve the Union.”

  May 8, 1850

  Eureka, California

  Wielding her cane menacingly, Marina Van Buskirk forced her way from the steamboat through the crowded seaside docks, and then waded in ankle-deep mud toward the cluster of shacks and tents. “Where’s the hospital?” she asked a man who was leading an overburdened mule.

  The man stopped, looked her over, spit tobacco juice, and urged the mule forward again.

  Marina held up a gold coin. “Hospital?”

  He stopped again. “There ain’t none.” He grabbed for the coin.

  Marina stepped back beyond his reach and closed the coin in her fist. “There was a gunfight here about a week ago between Lucky Billy Van and a U.S. Marshal. Did you hear about it?” She showed him the coin again.

  “Hear about it? I seen it with my own two eyes. The marshal got the drop on the outlaw but the polecat had him a little hide-out pistol up his sleeve.” He cackled. “Shot the marshal right in his family jewels.” He mimicked a pistol with his thumb and index finger. “Pow.” He dropped the mule’s reins and cupped his groin with both hands. “Guess that marshal’s gonna be singin’ in the ladies choir from now on. You should of seen it. It was like…”

  “Is the marshal still alive?” Marina interrupted.

  “Last I heard.” The man was obviously disappointed that he couldn’t continue his oft-told tale.

  “Where might he be?”

  “The marshal? If he’s still alive, the roomin’ house, most likely.”

  “Where’s that?”

  He pointed toward a building that looked like a warehouse.

  Marina dropped the coin in the mud and started to turn away.

  “You miserable old hag.” The man caught Marina by the arm. “Pick that up.”

  Marina whacked him on the ear with her cane and stepped on the coin, burying it in the mud. “Old hag?” She whacked him on the other ear, and then slogged toward the building, ignoring the man’s howls.

  ~

  “Anybody ever tell you that it ain’t polite to walk into a man’s bedroom without knockin’ first?” Josiah Whipple lowered his pistol, carefully released the hammer, and sat back against the bed’s pillows with a grimace.

  “It stinks in here.” Marina walked to the window and opened it.

  “That stink is me,” Whipple said. “Takin’ a bath with a bullet in my belly’s proved to be a tad difficult.”

  She turned toward him and leaned against the window sill. “I heard that William shot you in your privates, not in the belly.”

  “I crouched down a bit when he pulled the trigger and he was a couple o’ inches too high.”

  “How is it that you’re still alive?”

  “The bullet went through my pistol belt. It ain’t that deep but it’s too deep to pull out with my fingers.”

  “Why haven’t you let a doctor remove it?”

  “There ain’t no doctors here, Marina. The closest they got to one is a barber. And he’s the filthiest man I ever did see.”

  “Then I guess I better do it.” She took a small leather bag off her shoulder and walked toward the bed.

  “I ain’t exposin’ my privates to you, Marina.”

  She shrugged. “You have a fever. The bullet probably took a chunk of your belt and some cloth with it. Now the wound’s infected. If I operate, remove the bullet and clean out the wound, you might recover. If I don’t, you’ll be dead in another day or two. Is your modesty worth dying for?”

  He closed his eyes. “You gonna put maggots on me?”

  “Let’s hope that you don’t need them. I didn’t bring any and growing them is a slow and disgusting job.” She put the bag down beside him. “There’s a pint of laudanum in there. Take a big swig. I need to get some clean water.” She started toward the door.

  He opened the bag and found the bottle. “What are you doin’ here, anyway?”

  She stopped. “Back in Matamoras, I heard a rumor that you were hung like a stud horse, Josiah. I thought this might be an opportunity to peek.”

  He chuckled. “Thanks, Marina.” He took a swallow from the bottle.

  “Thank me when the fever breaks.”

  ~

  Whipple awoke with a start and groped for his pistol.

  “Shh.” Marina caught his hand. “The door’s barred and I’m well armed. You’re safe.”

  He looked toward the dark window. “How long have I been out?”

  “About fourteen hours.”

  “Fourteen hours? What the hell was in that bottle?”

  “I told you it was laudanum.”

  “Laudanum don’t knock a man out cold for no fourteen hours.”

  “It was the chloral hydrate I mixed in the laudanum that knocked you out,” she said after a moment of indecision.

  “The what?”

  “Chloral hydrate.”

  “I’ve never heard tell of it.”

  “It’s a new discovery by a German chemist. I bought it from a very disreputable man in San Francisco. He said it was being used in Europe to render patients unconscious during surgery. But he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell me the correct mixture or dosage.”

  Whipple rubbed his eyes. “Well, I think you done gave me too much. My brain’s full o’ mush.”

  “What choice did I have?” she asked defensively. “You’re too strong. I couldn’t hold you down and operate at the same time.”

  He touched the bandage on his groin. “Did you get the bullet out?”

  She nodded. “And all the bits of leather and cloth fiber – and the infected tissue too. The scar’s going to be bigger than you expected, but I did a nice, neat stitching job.” She put the back of her hand against his forehead. “Your fever’s broken. I think you just might make it.”

  He tried to sit up and groaned. “I ain’t so sure about that.”

  She pushed him back down. “It’s going to take a while for the drug to wear off.”

  “My head feels like I drunk me a whole barrel o’ whiskey.”

  She gave him a cup. “Drink that.”

  “What is it?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Water. When you’re more alert I’ll give you some soup.”

  He took a sip then a swallow. “Why are y’ doin’ this for me, Marina?”

  “I told you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know what you told me, but you ain’t no more interested in sex than me.”

  “I never heard of a man that wasn’t interested in sex.”

  “I’m damn near seventy years old,” he sputtered, “and yer a sight older than me.”

  She laughed. “Relax, Josiah. I’m only teasing you. You’re safe. But I’m younger than you in more ways than one.”

  He finished the water and handed her the cup. “Can I have some more?”

  She refilled it and gave it to him.

  He took a sip, then looked at his hand. “Did you wash me?”

  “It was self-defense.”

  “All over?”

  “All over. You have no secrets from me, Josiah. Your equipment is magnificent, by the way.”

  He took another swallow, then met her eyes. “If I was still interested in sex – I mean… If I was a younger man…”

  She patted his hand. “I like you too. Don’t worry about it.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “Steamboat from San Francisco.”

  “What’re you gonna do when you leave here?” he asked after a short silence. “Back to San Francisco or Mexico?”

  “Neither. My brother died last winter and it seems that he’s left me his plantation near Mesilla in the New Mexico territory. I need to go settle his debts and sell the place. Aft
er that – I’m not sure.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  “There’s a whole lot that you don’t know about me.”

  He nodded. “Reckon so. Sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to apologize for, Josiah.”

  “Reckon you’d want some company?”

  “Company?”

  “Yeah. On yer journey to New Mexico.”

  She nodded. “Yes. I’d be glad for your company. But first we need to get you well.”

  June 19, 1850

  Brunswick, Maine

  Anna Lagrange stepped down from the carriage and looked up at the driver. “Stonemore House?”

  He pointed. “Just across the green.”

  “Thank you.” Anna stepped up onto the sidewalk, followed it around the small park and along a low wrought-iron fence to a stately two-story white house with dark green trim.

  She was met at the door by a black maid who eyed her suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

  “I am Anna Van Buskirk with the New York Tribune. I have an appointment with Mrs. Stowe.”

  “Mrs. Stowe didn’t say nothin’ about no lady callers.”

  “When I write I use my initials, A.M.; she may think that I’m a man.”

  “Just a moment. I needs to ask.”

  “Fine.” Anna took a fan from her sleeve and popped it open as the maid closed the door.

  Two minutes later, a pale, blonde woman with sad blue eyes opened the door. “I am so dreadfully sorry. Please come in, Miss Van Buskirk.”

  “It’s Mrs. Lagrange actually.” Anna stepped into the cool entryway. “Van Buskirk is my maiden name. Mr. Greeley insisted on my using A.M. Van Buskirk in my byline.” Anna removed her right glove and offered her hand. “I’m Anna Marina Van Buskirk Lagrange. Please call me Anna.”

  The other woman hesitated for a moment, then took Anna’s hand. “I’m Harriet Stowe.” She seemed rattled. “Of course you know that.” She released Anna’s hand and closed the door. “I use my maiden name too. As my pen name. That is, I use my full name. Harriet Beecher Stowe.”

  “Is this a bad time for you, Mrs. Stowe?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “You seem very nervous.”

  “I suppose I am. A little. I haven’t been interviewed by a New York paper before and frankly, I don’t know why you’re here.”

  “I want your opinion of the new Fugitive Slave Act.”

  “Why mine? I’m no one important.”

  “John Jewett, the publisher of National Era, is a friend. I’ve read the early installments of your serial about the cabin of Uncle Tom and think it a brilliant work.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Stowe beamed.

  “Really. When it’s published as a book, your story is going to bring the plight of Negroes into the living rooms of average Americans.” Anna looked toward the sitting room. “Do you think we could sit down? I should like to take some notes, and doing so in a standing position is awkward.”

  “Oh dear. Yes, of course. Please come in, Miss…”

  “Please call me Anna.”

  “And you must call me Harriet. Did I already say that?”

  “I don’t think so, Harriet.”

  “You must think me scatterbrained.” She fluttered a hand and then led the way into the parlor where she gestured toward a settee. “Will you be attending the Seneca Falls Convention?”

  Anna sat down and smoothed her dress. “I cannot decide. Although I am very committed to women’s suffrage, I feel that concentrating on that issue detracts from the more important issue of abolishing slavery.”

  Mrs. Stowe sat down. “If women had the vote, slavery would have already been abolished.”

  “Then I take it that you will be attending the Seneca Falls Convention.”

  “Alas, I have another commitment and cannot.”

  Anna waited to see if the woman would say more about the other commitment but Mrs. Stowe was tight-lipped. “I recently had the good fortune of hearing your brother’s sermon at the Plymouth Church in Brooklyn,” Anna said at last.

  “Did you?”

  Anna waited again but Mrs. Stowe added nothing. “If I wished to participate in the Underground Railroad, with whom should I speak?”

  Mrs. Stowe took a moment to answer. “You said that you wished to discuss the new Fugitive Slave Law.”

  “Among other things, yes, I do.”

  “Are you familiar with the law?”

  Anna nodded.

  “Then you know that under the provisions of that law, any person aiding a runaway slave by providing food or shelter is subject to six months’ imprisonment and a fine of one thousand dollars.”

  “I only want a name.”

  “Do you want this name for your newspaper or to join the cause?”

  “Both. I would join and then use the newspaper to champion the cause.”

  Mrs. Stowe shook her head. “The time is not right.”

  “When will it be right?”

  “Soon, perhaps. This new Fugitive Slave Law has brought the issue home to citizens in the North by making both themselves and their institutions responsible for enforcing slavery. It cannot stand.”

  “Has the underground railroad stopped functioning because of it?”

  Mrs. Stowe’s hands fluttered nervously. “Discussing it is against the law, Mrs. – that is, Anna. I have nothing to say on that subject.”

  “I see. Well, I hope that, in time, you will come to trust me.”

  “It isn’t about trust.”

  Anna looked puzzled. “You do realize that your book is going to create a firestorm of controversy, do you not?”

  “Controversy? I don’t see how. I told only the truth.”

  “Truth is a matter of perception. You dramatized your point of view. To you, and to people of like minds, it will be perceived as true. To those who disagree with you, it will be perceived as propaganda.”

  “Propaganda?” She whispered it like a dirty word.

  Anna shrugged. “You’re going to make more friends than enemies with your book, Harriet, but I assure you that there will be enemies.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I’m telling you because you seem to be very naïve.”

  Mrs. Stowe looked away. “Perhaps I am. What do you advise?”

  “I didn’t come here for this, but after meeting you I wonder if you shouldn’t consider publishing under a pen name.”

  “My brother wants me to use my real name.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Freedom for slaves everywhere.”

  “Vey well then. Let’s talk about how I can help you make the transition from obscurity to fame, because you’re going to be famous, and in need of help, desperately.”

  June 21, 1850

  San Francisco, California

  It was nearly midnight and Clementine was still pacing the hotel room floor. She had gone to bed at nine but tossed and turned until she finally had to get back up. She knew this would happen. When Jack told her this morning that he was going to Sacramento she tried to tell him that she couldn’t stand being alone, but he didn’t take her seriously. He said that she was being silly. He said that the hotel was filled with people. He just didn’t understand.

  If Marina was still here, even if she was in another room, it wouldn’t be so bad.

  “What I need is a drink,” she said aloud. “Yes. Maybe I’ll get drunk.”

  She got dressed and went downstairs but discovered that the dining room was closed. “Excuse me,” she said to the night clerk. “Can women go into the saloon after the dining room’s closed?”

  “Not without an escort, Madam.” He pointed to the sign.

  “Yes, I saw the sign, but the dining room is closed.”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “So what’s a woman to do?”

  “What is it that you wish to do, Madam?”

  “I can’t sleep so I thought a glass of wine might help.”

&nb
sp; “Well. The bars over on Mission Street serve women.” He winked.

  Clementine didn’t understand the wink, but decided it would be best to ignore it. “Mission Street you say?”

  “I wasn’t being serious, Madam.”

  “Well, I am serious. How do I get there?”

  He shrugged and pointed toward the front door. “Just go outside, turn either way, walk to the end of the block and turn toward the Bay. The next street is Mission.”

  “Thank you.” She marched through the lobby, pushed through the revolving door and was stunned by the chill. For a moment, she considered giving up, but the thought of that empty room spurred her on into the chilly night.

  The bar smelled like beer and it was probably filthy, but the lamps were too dim to see. About half the tables were occupied; all by men. Two tawdry-looking women and a drunk were seated at the bar.

  “Help you?” the bartender asked.

  Clementine had started for a table, but changed her mind and walked to the bar. “I’d like a glass of wine, please.”

  “A dollar and a nickel,” he said.

  “For a glass of wine?”

  “The wine’s a nickel. The stool’s a dollar.”

  She looked confused. “What if I sit at a table?”

  “A dollar and a nickel.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand? You wanna work here, it costs a dollar.”

  “Work here? I don’t… Oh. Work here.” She smiled. “No, no. You’ve got it wrong. I’m a reasonably respectable married woman, but I couldn’t sleep and thought a glass of wine would help.”

  The bartender took a second look at Clementine’s hair, clothes and fingernails, then revised his opinion. “This ain’t no place for a lady, Lady.”

  “It’s either here or pacing my hotel room all night. The dining room’s closed and they wouldn’t let me into the so-called gentlemen’s saloon without a male escort.”

  He wiped out a wineglass with his apron and poured wine from a gallon jug. “This is grape juice, sugar and grain alcohol,” he said. “We don’t get much call for real wine.”

  Clementine opened her purse and took out a dollar. “Keep the change.”