Antebellum BK 1

by Jeffry S. Hepple

  “He’s only going to Mexico to get you out of the country.”

  “Weren’t you planning to move to Mexico?”

  “I was. Now I’ve changed my mind.”

  “If you convince Jack to stay here, I’ll stay here.”

  “Which would you prefer?”

  “I’d prefer to let Jack decide.”

  Marina smiled. “Okay. That’s fair enough.” She stood up. “I’ll be back for your tray in a few minutes.”

  “Oh. Before you go. I’ve been meaning to ask you whose apartment this is.”

  “This would be the housekeeper’s, if I had a live-in housekeeper.”

  “But you do have a housekeeper. I met her.”

  “Yes, but she prefers to live in the village with her family.” Marina crossed the room and stopped at the door. “We can move you upstairs if you like. Jack and I only put you in here because he was too tired to carry you upstairs the night you arrived.”

  “No. This is fine. Thanks.”

  Marina left the room and went through the house to the covered veranda where Jack was smoking a Mexican cigar. “She’s having her lunch. She’ll be fine in a few more days.”

  He nodded. “Thank you, Mother. You’ve saved our lives.”

  “It was about time I did something for you. And I’m happy to have you here, by the way.”

  He grinned. “It’s peaceful here.”

  “Why don’t you stay?”

  He puffed on the cigar and examined the ash. “One Federal judge put Clem in prison for twenty years, then another set her free with a stroke of his pen as a favor to Anna. I can’t trust what the next judge might do.”

  Marina pointed to the southwest. “On a fast horse the Mexican border is fifteen minutes away.”

  “Fifteen minutes is too long when you have the U.S. Cavalry on your heels.”

  “I have a hundred and fifty men working for me here. Half of the vaqueros are Mexican army veterans who would love to have an excuse to shoot some Gringos. You and Clementine are safer here than you would be in Mexico where you’ll have no income, no family and no friends.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “One more thing while you’re thinking.”

  “What?”

  “Your Spanish is terrible.”

  He chuckled. “My Spanish is perfect, if you’re a Californian.”

  “Is that what you are?”

  He gave her a puzzled look and shook his head. “I don’t know what I am.”

  “Then this is a good place to be because it’s nowhere right now. Not Mexico, not Arizona and not New Mexico.”

  Jack looked at his hands. “All right, Mother. We’ll stay. But as far as the rest of the family is concerned, we’re in Juarez.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t trust Anna to keep her mouth shut.”

  “Anna would never do anything to harm you.”

  “No. But she just doesn’t know how to keep a secret.”

  “Very well. I’ll tell Robert that you’re in Juarez.”

  May 23, 1856

  New York, New York

  Streaming a long ticker tape behind her, Anna walked over to the National Editor’s desk. “Got a second?”

  He looked up. “Sure.” He put his pen back in the inkwell. “Have a seat.”

  She sat down in the side chair and began rolling up the tape. “It looks like Kansas is going to keep heating up. I was wondering if I could go back.”

  He pointed at the tape. “Something new?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “One of the Lawrence newspapers that got burned out on the 21st is back in business with a new printing press and a new location. This is just a recap of the damages.”

  “How bad was it?”

  “The Free-State Hotel was burned to the ground. Several homes and stores were ransacked. And the two newspapers, of course. Nothing worth another story.”

  “Have you been following the Senator Charles Sumner incident?”

  She shook her head. “Should I be?”

  “I’m told that the reason Congressman Brooks attacked Senator Sumner was a speech of Sumner’s where he denounced Southerners for pro-slavery violence in Kansas. That moves it onto our desk. If we want it.”

  “Senator Sumner’s from Massachusetts?”

  “Yes. Congressman Brooks is from South Carolina.”

  “I heard that Sumner was blinded. Is that a fact?”

  “No. Brooks beat him over the head with a heavy cane and he was temporarily blinded by blood running into his eyes.”

  She shuddered. “How badly was he hurt?”

  “He’s in bad shape. Brooks continued to beat him until his cane broke.”

  “This was on the floor of the Senate?” Anna asked.

  He shook his head. “In the Senate chambers.”

  “Why didn’t someone stop him?”

  “Apparently some senators tried, but they were held at bay by Congressman Laurence Keitt who was armed with a pistol.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Get as much background as you can from the City and Political desks and weave it into a feature story about the attack on the city of Lawrence. I want it to show how deeply the country’s divided by the issue of slavery.”

  “Should I go easy on President Pierce?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  She shrugged. “He completely ignored the recommendation of the Congressional committee that investigated the election and he continues to recognize the pro-slavery legislature as the legitimate government of Kansas. I think he should be exposed.”

  “Can you back it up?”

  “I have a copy of the Congressional investigating committee’s findings. It’s undeniable that Border Ruffians manipulated the vote.”

  “Include enough facts to put any arguments back on Congress and off us.”

  She nodded. “Over your byline?”

  “No. Over yours.”

  She looked surprised. “Mine? I don’t do features.”

  “You do now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ll bet my job on it.”

  “When do you want it?”

  “By deadline for next Sunday.”

  “Thank you. I… Thank you.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t thank me. In a world that was fair to women you’d be sitting at this desk.”

  She stood up. “What about my going back to Kansas?”

  “Go. After you finish the feature.”

  May 29, 1856

  Ottawa Creek, Kansas

  The house was like most of the others in the area, built of rough-sawn lumber. Without benefit of paint, the boards had warped and split, leaving last year’s calking hanging like sloughed snake skins. Anna stepped onto the creaky porch, walked forward carefully and knocked on the door.

  “What do you want?” a woman’s voice replied.

  “Are you Louisa Jane Wilkinson?” Anna called out.

  “I asked what you wanted.”

  “I’m Anna Van Buskirk. I’m a reporter with the New York Times and I’d like to interview Louisa Jane Wilkinson regarding the murder of her husband, the late Congressman Allen Wilkinson of the Kansas Legislature.”

  The door was opened by a bedraggled woman with unkempt hair and a sallow complexion. “I’ve got the measles so if you haven’t had ‘em you should step back.”

  “I’ve had the measles. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you look a fright. Can I help you with something?”

  “That’s real kind of you to offer, but the house is such a mess that I’d be embarrassed for you to see it.”

  “Maybe you could come out then and sit.” Anna pointed at a glider that seemed to be capable of supporting the weight of one person. “The day’s very pleasant.”

  Without comment, the woman stepped gingerly down to the porch and leaned on the wall. “Just give me a second.”

  “Take your time.”

  “Do the people in New Yo
rk really care about what goes on here?”

  Anna nodded. “Yes. There’s a great deal of concern.”

  “Didn’t New York vote for Pierce?”

  “No, New York voted for Winfield Scott.”

  Mrs. Wilkinson reached the glider and sat down heavily. “What do you want to know?”

  “Did you see the men who took your husband on the night of the 24th?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did they identify themselves?”

  “They said they were the northern army. We didn’t know what that meant.”

  “Was Captain John Brown one of the men?”

  “You mean the old man?”

  “I suppose.” Anna looked confused.

  “Old man John Brown was in charge. He called himself Captain Brown. Four of his sons was with him. One of ‘em was also named John Brown.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that.” Anna made a note. “Did he say anything? Old man Brown?”

  “Yes. I begged them to let Mr. Wilkinson stay with me, saying that I was sick and helpless, and couldn’t stay by myself. My husband also asked them to let him stay until he could get someone to wait on me. He told them that he wouldn’t run off, but he would be there the next day, or whenever they called for him. The old man looked at me, and then around at the children, and replied, ‘you have neighbors.’ I said, ‘so I have, but they’re not here, and I can’t go for ‘em.’ The old man said, ‘it matters not.’” She began to weep.

  Anna gave her a handkerchief.

  “My husband wanted to put on his boots, and get ready, so as to be protected from the damp and night air, but they wouldn’t let him. They took my husband away.” She dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. “Next morning,” Mrs. Wilkinson continued, “Mr. Wilkinson’s body was found out there in some dead brush not too far from the house. A lady who saw my husband’s body said that there was a gash in his head and his side. Some others said he was cut in the throat. Twice. I didn’t want to look.”

  ~

  “Mrs. Doyle, I’m Anna Van Buskirk from the New York Times.”

  “Mahala Doyle.” Mrs. Doyle offered Anna her hand. “How can I help you?”

  “If you could answer a few questions for me it would be a big help.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “We moved here last November.”

  “Can you describe the events of last Saturday, the 24th of May, for me please?”

  “I swore a affidavit. The justice of the peace left a copy here with me. Do you want to read that?”

  “I’d rather hear it in your own words, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind. Where should I start?”

  “With the arrival of John Brown and his men.”

  “All right. It was about eleven o’clock. We were all awakened by the sound of people in the yard and then someone knocked on the front door. James, my husband, got up to see who it was. Someone outside asked where Mr. Wilkinson lived.”

  “Congressman Allen Wilkinson?”

  “Oh. Yes. We have always called him Mr. Wilkinson, never congressman. I don’t know why.”

  “Sorry. Please go on. You were saying that the people at the door wanted directions to the Wilkinson’s house. Did your husband tell them?”

  “Yes. Some of the men came into the house while my husband was giving them directions. When they were inside they said that they were from the army and that they came to arrest Mr. Wilkinson and my husband because they was both pro-slavery men.”

  “Were they armed?”

  “Yes. With pistols and big knives.”

  “Go on, please.”

  “They took James into the yard, then they came back and took my sons, William and Drury. They were going to take my son John too, but I was in tears and I begged them to spare him because John is only seventeen and knows nothing about politics.”

  “So they took William and Drury but not John?”

  “That’s right.”

  Anna made some notes, then nodded. “What happened next?”

  “One of them asked where our horses were kept. One of us, I can’t remember who, said they were on the prairie. It may have been my daughter, Polly Ann. I can’t remember.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Please go on.”

  “A short time after they went out I heard two pistol shots and then moaning, as if a person was dying. Then I heard a wild whoop. My husband and my sons didn’t come back that night. I went out next morning in search of them, and found my husband and William, my son, lying dead in the road, about two hundred yards from the house. They were buried the next day. On the day of the burying, I saw the dead body of Drury.”

  Anna gestured toward the signs of packing. “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes. I’m abandoning this claim and going to take my surviving children to the State of Missouri. What we’ll do after that I cannot say.”

  “Can I have the names and ages of your children please?”

  “All of them? Even William and Drury?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “We don’t keep track of ages very well. I’d need the family Bible to be sure and I cannot say where it is right now.”

  “Approximate ages would be fine.”

  “Very well. William was about twenty-two, Drury about twenty. As I said a moment ago, John is about seventeen. Polly Ann is thirteen. James Jr. is eight and Henry is five – I think.”

  “Your husband’s full name was James P. Doyle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Doyle. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

  June 2, 1856

  Black Jack, Kansas

  Henry C. Pate watched Anna dismount. “I don’t approve of ladies wearing trousers.”

  “I wasn’t aware that I needed your approval, Henry.” Anna took off her hat and used it to beat the dust off her breeches.

  “Why are you here?” he asked in a challenging tone.

  “I came to warn you that John Brown is coming to free his sons.”

  “Why would you do that? Your support of the Free-Staters is well known.”

  “I’m not in support of needless bloodshed,” Anna replied.

  “You want me to release Brown’s sons?”

  She shook her head. “This isn’t about what I want; it’s about avoiding a battle that won’t accomplish anything.”

  “We’re a match for Brown. Let him come.”

  Anna looked around. “I think you’re outnumbered.”

  “How many with him?” Pate asked nervously.

  “I didn’t count but it seemed like more than you have here.”

  “Did he send you?”

  “No. I didn’t even talk to him.” She put her hat back on and mounted her horse.

  Pate stepped forward and caught the bridle. “Where are you going?”

  “To the tavern, if they’ll let me in. After the battle, I’ll come back and interview the winner. Let go of my horse.” She raised her quirt.

  Pate released his grip. “If you try to leave town to tell Brown how many men I have I’ll have you shot.”

  She gave him an unfriendly look, then pulled her horse into a tight turn and urged him toward the town.

  July 1, 1856

  Lawrence, Kansas

  John Brown strode through the diners and stopped to stare down at Anna with blazing eyes. “What is the meaning of this?” He threw a newspaper down on her table.

  Anna picked up her teacup in one hand and the paper in the other. “What am I supposed to be reading?”

  “The story entitled: Henry Clay Pate on John Brown on the Battle of Black Jack.”

  “Snappy headline.”

  Brown snatched the paper back, found the story and began reading. “‘Had I known whom I was fighting I would not have trusted a flag of truce. Captain Brown commanded me to order my company to lay down their arms. Putting a revolver to my breast he repeated the command, giving me one or two minutes to make the order
.’”

  “What’s your question?” Anna asked.

  “How could you write such a falsehood?” Brown demanded.

  She shrugged. “I didn’t write that. It’s not even my paper.”

  He looked at the masthead. “New York Tribune.”

  “I work for the New York Times.”

  “Well,” he spluttered. “I’m going to write to them and demand a retraction.”

  “I think you should. Henry Pate knew who you were before you got there.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I told him.”

  “You what?”

  “I told him that you were coming, that he was outnumbered, and I advised him to release your two sons and your other men.”

  “I could have you shot for that.”

  “Everyone keeps telling me that they can have me shot.” She waved at him with a shooing motion. “Go away.”

  July 4, 1856

  Arlington, Virginia

  Lieutenant Johnny Van Buskirk stepped from the train, shouldered his heavy duffle, looked down the platform and raised his free hand to wave at Lieutenant Fitzhugh Lee. “Fitz. Here. Fitz.”

  Lee saw him, waved and began working his way through the crowd of passengers toward Johnny. Behind him, a young black man, in homespun, followed in such a deferential manner that Johnny knew at once that the man must be a slave.

  “So how was it?” Lee asked, shaking Johnny’s hand enthusiastically. “Are you and the lovely Miss Chase betrothed?” He looked at the duffle bag on Johnny’s left shoulder. “Give that to Sam.”

  “I can manage,” Johnny said.

  Lee gave him a warning look. “Please don’t embarrass us. Give the bag to Sam.”

  Johnny hesitated but the black man stepped forward and took the bag off his shoulder. “It’s my job,” he said in a tone that only Johnny could hear.

  Lee led the way. “Your brother and Jeb Stuart are waiting for us at the Officers’ club.”

  “I should check in with the company first,” Johnny said.

  “That isn’t necessary.”

  “I’d rather clean up and stow my gear first, if you don’t mind. And I’m looking forward to seeing the Supe again.”