Threads West, an American Saga

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  In addition, the government has already broken the Indian Treaty of 1850, and there have been accounts in the paper of raids and killing. This will not be the gentle pasturing of cattle on the lush green fields of Villmar. You will need your wits and all your strength and courage, and once you have chiseled out the family’s place, you may well have to fight to keep it.”

  “I know.” Reuben leaned forward. “I am ready.”

  Uncle Hermann again deliberately emptied and refilled his pipe. Reuben realized his boots were tapping with impatience and willed his feet to be still. “I feel as if you are probing whether or not my character is strong enough.”

  Uncle Hermann’s eyes flicked to his for a moment, then back to his pipe. “Ludwig wrote me more than two years ago that he had chosen you. He wanted only to wait until you were twenty-one. Neither of us doubts your ability—only your experience. You would be foolish to travel alone, Reuben. Everyone needs a trusted friend to cover his back. Two sets of eyes are far more powerful than simple bravery.”

  “I know, Uncle. I agree. I have decided to ask Johannes to accompany me. I believe he will.”

  “That is wise, nephew. I had hoped you would do that. There is a strength in him behind the devilish attitude. It would not surprise me if he has had extensive military experience.”

  “Now that you bring it up, Uncle, that would certainly explain some things I have noticed. Johannes carries himself a certain way. I’ll ask him.”

  Motioning to Reuben to remain seated, Hermann rose. “There is also something you must have,” he said. He limped from the study, reappearing minutes later with a .54 caliber Sharps long rifle and the monies Ludwig had steadily sent across the ocean. Reuben could not keep his eyes off the long-range gun. The gold and silver breech offset the splendid walnut stock. He eagerly took the weapon when his uncle extended it, turning the Sharps slowly in his hands. It was heavy and solid. He swung the brass butt plate easily to his shoulder and then lowered the rifle. “There is a perfect heft and fine balance in the swing of the muzzle. It’s beautiful, Uncle Hermann.”

  “I will show you how to use the breech-loading mechanism tomorrow. With practice, eight to ten rounds a minute are possible. I also had some custom work done. The gunsmith added on an Enfield adjustable ladder sight, as you can see. There are steps in one-hundred-yard increments up to four hundred yards. The adjustable flip-up sight that I had him add extends the accuracy of the gun to between six hundred fifty and twelve hundred fifty yards, depending on wind and how solid a rest you have. British Marines…,” a dark look crossed Uncle Hermann’s face, “…are designated marksmen if they hit a two-foot bull’s-eye seven in twenty times at six hundred yards.” He tapped his pipe on the ash box with several particularly hard taps. “I trust you will shoot far more accurately than Her Majesty’s Red Coats.”

  “Thank you. I am sure it will properly defend me and put meat on the table.”

  Leaning forward, his uncle’s reply was terse. “Yes, it is beautiful but it is more than that where you’re going. It’s a weapon, perhaps at times the most important tool you will have. Remember, nephew, sometimes the best way to defend is to attack.”

  “That sounds rather grim.” Reuben set the rifle down.

  “It is simply as it is. One more thing. Did Ludwig tell you we never received the third map?”

  Reuben nodded.

  “Based on the last note from our scout’s brother, which might not have yet reached Prussia before you left, I have reason to believe the missing map may have indicated the possibility of gold near where you will establish the ranch.”

  “Ranch?” Reuben cocked his head quizzically.

  Hermann smiled, “Yes, ranch. That is what Americans call cattle farms out west. Have you decided on how you will travel to the West?”

  “I plan to leave Thursday, the day after tomorrow, by train to St. Louis via Chicago. Father told me the river steamship routes are too complicated and slow.”

  The older man nodded. “So they are, my boy. So they are. St. Louis is a boomtown. The population has gone up almost eight times in the last ten years. It is the primary gathering place for adventurous souls headed west into the frontier.” He sighed deeply. “In many ways I envy you.”

  Rising, he tousled Reuben’s hair. “I am tired, nephew, and I must rest my leg. I will leave you to your preparations.”

  Reuben stood, reaching out to shake his uncle’s hand. He was surprised when, ignoring his outstretched hand, his uncle took a step forward and hugged him tightly. “Yes, you are much like my brother, Reuben. Ludwig was right to choose you. Now take the rifle. Do not hesitate to use it when you must.”

  “You and Johannes should get a carriage down to Wiggins and Booraem Mercantile tomorrow. It is located on Pearl, north of Wall Street. Ask for Wallace, and tell him you are my nephew. Buy two Colt revolvers. I prefer the Navy models in .36 caliber. The Squareback is the best of the two Navy styles. They are a bit more accurate than the .44 Dragoon or Army models. They swing quickly, point well and have the six-shot cylinder.” He looked out the window with a vacant stare. “If we had had those, I think we could have defeated the British.” His eyes returned to Reuben. “But we didn’t. Good night, nephew.”

  Johannes returned and joined Reuben who sat in the parlor lost in thought, the Sharps on his lap.

  “How was your walk?”

  Johannes eyes twinkled. “Other than a lack of female Vikings, quite pleasant.” He whistled appreciatively. “That is a hell of a rifle. Many think it is the best in the world. And I see you have elevation ladders on the sights. Very impressive.”

  Reuben punched him playfully in the shoulder. “So, women and rifles, eh? And I thought you only had a one-track mind. But, besides that, there’s something I want to show you.”

  Opening the leather map case, he carefully withdrew the maps he and his uncle had studied and spread them on the table. “I told you on the ship that my plans were to head west and establish a cattle operation for the family. However, there is much more. We are here,” he pointed at New York. “There are trains that run from here to Chicago and St. Louis.”

  Reuben unrolled the larger of the two maps. While crude, it clearly showed St. Louis, the Mormon and Emigrant trails west, the Kansas Territory and a great range of mountains far to the west.

  Pointing at a label on the extreme western side of the map, Reuben looked firmly, solemnly into Johannes’ eyes. “Montanas Rojas, a set of three peaks in the mountain range known as the San Juans in Las Colorados, the west edge of the Kansas Territory. That’s where I’m headed, Johannes. It is my family’s future.”

  “Sounds exciting, but why share all this with me?” His friend’s tone was nonchalant but Reuben noticed a keen interest in the blue eyes that had not left his.

  Reuben cleared his throat. “Would you like to join me?”

  Studying the map, a broad smile spread across the tall blond’s features, and he nodded his head slowly. “The San Juans, eh? Not very Scandinavian. There’s much you’ll need to teach me about cattle.”

  “Yes. Well, perhaps you can teach me about women,” Reuben snorted, “if there are any where we are headed.” Laughing, the two men shook hands.

  “We start day after tomorrow. We must outfit ourselves and you will need one of these.” Reuben held up the Sharps. Johannes hefted the rifle. His facial features turned impassive and hard. Handing it back to Reuben, he shook his head firmly. “I think instead I will choose the slanting breech carbine from Sharps. It is shorter and lighter than yours and better for use while on a horse.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  Johannes sidestepped Reuben’s question. “We will both need pistols, too, and I would like a saber.”

  “Uncle Hermann suggested pistols but a saber?” “They can be useful.”

  “Are you familiar with the use of sabers?” Reuben pressed.

  “They are mostly military issue, aren’t they?”

  Johannes expression r
emained inscrutable. “I have used one a time or two.”

  “But—” began Reuben.

  Standing suddenly, Johannes extended his long arm and stretched. “I am tired. Time for some rest. Good night, Reuben, my friend.” He turned and strode from the room. Reuben felt his eyebrows arch as he stared after Johannes, now more curious than he had been before.

  CHAPTER 19

  MARCH 2, 1855

  GRACIE MANSION

  As her transportation departed the wharf, Rebecca made sure her sidewise glance at Reuben was not revealed by any turn of her head. Playing back Reuben’s orders to the driver, how his green eyes coolly appraised her and the hint of condescension in his smile, she pursed her lips. He is really rather an upstart for the commoner class…though his tone was even, not overbearing but one of someone used to being in command.

  Thrusting back her shoulders, she forced herself to think ahead to her introduction to the mayor. Her father had intimated he was a rogue. The interior of the carriage gave some hint about the splendor he enjoyed. Plush, pleated, leather, burgundy seats faced each other. The floor was of polished oak in a herringbone design, carefully crafted and fitted. The cab walls were finished in rich burgundy velour; black braid trim was carefully placed at each seam and traced the curve of where the interior walls met the ceiling. The carriage windows had glass, a luxury Rebecca had not often seen in carriages in England. Small latches halfway up the windows could be pulled out to lower the top half of the window.

  They quickly left the neighborhoods in close proximity to the harbor, turning down Broadway, and then Fifth Avenue. “My, my, I had no idea,” Rebecca said aloud, as she looked out the window.

  The sidewalks were of carefully laid stone. Expensive shops with the latest fashions in the windows lined the street, and uniformed bellmen stood outside the doors of residential buildings and hotels. Well-dressed pedestrians turned, pointing at the carriage and craning their necks in an attempt to see if the mayor was inside.

  The horses turned into a semicircular drive on East End Avenue and 88th Street. The clip-clop of their shoes echoed almost in unison off large wrought iron gates bearing the sign “Gracie Mansion.” They were opened without hesitation by two uniformed policemen dressed smartly in blue tunics, with big badges, beige trousers and blue caps, which had crossed rifles embroidered on their crowns. The mayor’s mansion was set well back from East End Avenue. The drive was paved with red brick and the grounds were immaculately manicured. Surveying the building carefully as it came into clear view, Rebecca decided the architects had tried to imitate European flavor, somehow blending the continental with aspects of American creativity. The huge home was of imposing height. An oversized portico extended from wide entry steps that rose to entry doors. The driveway widened under the covered entry and the brick pavers were set in herringbone.

  The carriage came to a halt near the bottom of the steps. There was space under the portico for a number of large carriages. The white Gothic-style columns that supported the cover cast linear shadow designs across the front entry. Intricate latticework rimmed the entire second floor. Two members of the mansion staff were rapidly descending toward the carriage. One was a large, athletic, Negro man who went immediately to the carriage’s rear cargo well. The other, a very tall, slender, beautiful woman with long blonde hair, stood demurely as the driver assisted Rebecca with perfect etiquette and form as she stepped down from the coach.

  “We welcome you, milady Marx,” the blonde woman curtsied smartly, spreading the gray pleated skirt of her uniform to both sides with either hand, and bowing low into the white lace hemmed into her bodice.

  Rebecca nodded. The woman appeared to be around the same age as she was. It was not often that she encountered another female whose beauty rivaled her own. The servant’s English was impeccable, though there was a noticeable Scandinavian accent.

  “My name is Inga. I assist Mayor Wood with guests, and I will be your personal attendant during your stay with us. We have been looking forward to your arrival.”

  Turning to the Negro, she smiled, “John, could you please secure milady’s bags and bring them up to her suite.”

  John looked at her with a startled expression, pointing to the rear of the carriage.

  Walking over to the rear of the carriage, Inga looked in the baggage compartment, which overflowed with Rebecca’s trunks. “Oh, dear! John, I think it best that you get some assistance in moving this luggage. I’m sure milady will need items from her bags immediately to freshen up to meet the mayor.”

  Rebecca smiled. “A lady must have her comforts, and I insist on traveling prepared for any occasion. The three trunks in silver leaf can be stored in a safe, dry place. They have both valuables and breakables; so please handle them with care. The other three trunks and the three valises, I shall need. If you could have your helpers put them safely in my quarters, that would be greatly appreciated. What is your last name, Inga?”

  “Yes, milady. Inga Bjorne. I’m originally from Norway.”

  “Thank you, Inga. I am pleased that you’ve been assigned by the mayor to assist me. With your European culture and your obvious good grace and manners, I feel welcome already. I’m sure we will get along quite well.”

  Inga acknowledged the compliment with a reserved smile.

  It took John several minutes to assemble two younger, and likewise muscular, mansion staff to assist with Rebecca’s heavy trunks. Rebecca felt a start of surprise when Inga gave the newcomers orders in fluent French. Returning to Rebecca’s side, Inga directed extrication of the final trunks. “We know, milady, that traveling can be tiresome. If you would follow me, I’ll show you to your room so you can freshen up.”

  Leading Rebecca into the foyer, she stopped, sweeping her arm around the room, “Welcome to Gracie Mansion, milady.” The semicircular floor of black-and-white marble stretched in a pattern of diagonals and squares many meters from the front doors across an elliptical receiving area with a great volume that rose to the second floor ceiling. Stairways of oak at least three yards wide curved upward around either wall to a balcony two stories above the entry floor. The black curved handrails floated with perfect synchronization in their sweep up the stairs atop intricately milled glossy white balusters. Behind the railing of the balcony, a number of white-paneled doors were visible.

  *****

  Inga was not entirely sure what to make of Rebecca Marx. There was something familiar about her, her name, mannerisms and pattern of speech, but Inga could not place exactly what gave her the feeling.

  She had grown accustomed to a wide variety of guests and visitors to the mansion, and she had unabashedly taken full advantage of her looks with the mayor and her innate ability to organize and charm. In just months, she had been rapidly promoted from the janitorial staff to the reception staff.

  She usually assigned herself to attend the visiting males. She took special delight in achieving a fine balance between their interest and the strict prohibition against male touch or sexual interaction she had imposed upon herself in her new job. At least this guest will not have to be fended off, she thought to herself, walking toward the bottom of the right-side stairway, Rebecca several meters behind.

  Inga came to an abrupt stop as the mayor’s voice echoed from the other side of the room. “This must be milady Rebecca Marx.”

  Inga pursed her lips slightly. His voice is so much higher-pitched than one might expect from a man in a position of power.

  Bustling across the floor, a wide smile cemented itself between the tremors of his pudgy cheeks. His rotund frame and average height were accentuated by knee stockings that clung to stocky calves until they disappeared at the bottom of leggings that ballooned in an upward taper from his knee to the top of his thigh. His long-tailed vest was open to a starched, white, ruffled shirt. The bright, green fabric was too tight around his shoulders and imparted a peculiar twist to the dark gray of the wide lapels, where they flared wide at his collar bone and tapered to a mere point
of fabric at his hips. Though no longer the style of the day, his cheekbones showed a hint of rouge.

  Looking down at the floor, Inga tried to hide her inward snicker as he approached Rebecca, his eyes moving hungrily from her feet to her shoulders. He has certainly chosen his attire unwisely for this occasion.

  She glanced at Rebecca, who was facing the mayor with a forced smile. The mayor was not much taller than Rebecca’s five foot four inches. Bowing forward clumsily, he grabbed one of her hands and raised her wrist to his lips.

  “Milady Marx. Ferdinando Wood, mayor of the great city of New York at your service. It is truly such a pleasure to meet you. I was appalled to hear of Henry’s untimely death. He was a God-fearing, successful, adventurous soul. Though he often talked of you, I had no idea his daughter was so radiantly lovely and charming.”

  Inga started at the mention of Henry Marx’s name. Could this really be his daughter? Perhaps that would explain the vague sense of recognition.

  CHAPTER 20

  MARCH 2, 1855

  COMMON GROUND

  Watching the exchange carefully, Inga amused herself with thoughts of how few successes the mayor had with the opposite sex. Though he fancies himself quite the ladies’ man. Occasionally, he enjoyed couplings due to his money and power but Inga had never seen true attraction on the part of any woman. Shifting her gaze to Rebecca, Inga empathetically studied the contrived smile pasted on her face, her unnaturally stiff posture and her free hand firmly in front of her abdomen.

  Graciously, Rebecca allowed the mayor’s lips to linger on the back of her wrist before withdrawing her hand. Fluttering her eyelids, she crooned in just the right tone, “I did not expect such gentlemen in the New World.”

  Inga was impressed by the dark-haired woman’s perfect blend of aloof, yet coquettish, manipulation.